


We Rise Where Shadows Fall

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Nothing Will Remain 'Verse [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Coming Out, Friendship, M/M, Neal as Artist, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal, a former employee of Vincent Adler – and the only person from Adler’s organization to serve jail time – has agreed to help the FBI find Adler, who disappeared more than five years ago.  Peter, the case agent assigned to the Adler case, is worried about Neal’s safety and doesn’t trust the Marshals, so he’s keeping him close at hand.  The attraction between the two men grows as they learn about each other and everything comes to a head when Neal finally shares a devastating secret.    </p><p>Continues the story that began in <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/406439.html">Nothing Will Remain</a>, the near-canon A/U, where Peter is an FBI agent assigned to locate Vincent Adler.  He had discovered that a former employee of Adler’s, Neal Caffrey, is his ex-wife’s book keeper.  Neal had been reluctant to assist the FBI, but eventually agrees to help them.  This story picks up immediately after the prior story ends, but you don’t have to read that story to understand what’s going on here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Rise Where Shadows Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nioell](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nioell).



> Written for Round One of the [White Collar Reverse Big Bang](http://wc-reverse-bb.livejournal.com/). Many thanks to my very talented artist, Niolle, for the artwork that inspired this story.

“I’ll help you.” Neal said the words – he hadn’t thought about them before speaking, but now that he’d spoken, it felt right. Like the first right thing he’d done in a very long time.

He glanced over at Peter, who seemed surprised at his declaration. Mingled with the surprise was compassion and understanding, nothing he’d never expected from an FBI agent, but perfectly in keeping with all that he’d learned about Peter Burke in the last few hours. 

He told Peter why he’d changed his mind. The reasons were truths, but they were also excuses. Yes, he wanted to prove that he wasn’t his father’s son, but that was less important than proving to Peter Burke that he deserved the faith that he seemed to have in him. Neal couldn’t say at what point that became of paramount importance. He’d met the man only a week ago, spent a total of two or three hours in his company, and yet he went from seeing him as little more than a gold shield intent on making his life a misery to someone he needed to have in his life.

El would smile and say ‘I told you so,’ and that was all right. Family was entitled to take liberties like that. Moz might think he was crazy, or on the other hand, find his change of heart a very savvy move. Who better to provide protection than a Suit, especially one who seemed to be a cut more intelligent than the rest? His lawyer was nothing if not practical.

“So, where do we go from here?” He wondered what would happen next; would Peter rush him down to the FBI offices to make an official statement? 

“Like I already told you, you’re staying me.” 

“I mean, after I give my statement. You don’t need to twist my arm anymore. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

“Thank you – but I’m keeping you with me because I’m worried about you. Adler has a long reach. Until he’s under lock and key and we’re sure that he hasn’t put out a hit on you, you’re with me.”

That didn’t bother him – not in the least – but he had to make some effort. “I know you said you don’t trust the Marshals, that you had some run-in with them, but I’ve heard that they’ve never lost a witness under their protection.” Neal was all too familiar with the Marshals’ Service

“That’s true. While they’ve never lost a witness, I’d rather not take the chance. There’s a first time for everything.”

Neal tried not to feel too relieved. “What about during the day? I know you said I can’t go to work and the last thing I’d want to do is put Elizabeth in jeopardy. Will I stay here, in your apartment?”

Peter smiled, but it was more like a smirk and Neal didn’t quite understand why his stomach filled with butterflies. “When I said I’m not letting you out of my sight, I meant just that. You’ll come to the office with me. I’ll find a desk for you and you’ll keep yourself busy during the day.”

He had a very incongruous thought, that Peter was treating him like a kid unexpectedly off from school and couldn’t be left home alone. He hoped Peter wasn’t sharing that same thought.

“Once we get the all-clear from the Fire Department, I’ll send someone to your place and get your stuff. Is there anything you want, other than your clothes?”

“Yeah. Would it be possible to get my sketchpad and pencils?” They weren’t particularly good quality and if he was a different sort of person, he probably could get the FBI to buy him the kind he longed for. 

Peter nodded. “Anything else? Laptop? Tablet?”

Neal shook his head. “Nope, don’t have either, no need.” That wasn’t precisely true, but he didn’t want to tell Peter he couldn’t afford them. “My cell phone charger would be useful. It’s on my night table.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you make a list and I’ll give it to my agents tomorrow. This way, we won’t have to go back.”

“Won’t your people be annoyed? Having to fetch and carry an ex-con’s personal belongings?”

Peter gave him an odd look. “No, you’re a material witness in an on-going investigation; no one’s going to complain. Besides, they do what I tell them to do. It’s their job.”

Neal wasn’t so sure that no one would grumble, but if Peter was the boss, he didn’t doubt that he had the complete loyalty of his team. And that made him think about Vincent, how he’d once thought the same thing about him. Neal hoped that his perceptions about people weren’t still screwed up and twisted, that he wasn’t as wrong about Peter as he had been about his former boss. 

“What’s the matter?”

Neal wondered if his thoughts were on full display. Vincent often liked to tell him that he had a terrible poker face and that he was as easy to read as a headline on the New York Post’s front page. “Nothing, just thinking. This is – well – a lot to take in.”

Peter nodded. “I bet it is.” He huffed a sigh. “It’s not that late. Do you want to watch some television or something?”

Neal shrugged. “Truthfully, I’m kind of tired. It been a long day and maybe I should just go to bed. I have a feeling that tomorrow isn’t going to be any easier.”

“I understand. I’ll get you something to wear – will sweatpants be okay?”

“Yeah – sure. Would you mind if I showered first? I feel a little ripe.”

Peter retrieved the promised sweatpants, showed him the bathroom and pulled out a few towels from the linen closet. “I’m going to watch the game, take care of some paperwork. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join me.”

“Thanks.” He gave Peter a grateful smile and went into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind him. Even if he stared at the ceiling until dawn, there was no way – in his current frame of mind – that he could share a companionable evening with Peter Burke. 

He hadn’t felt this vulnerable since his first night in prison.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter had no intention of asking Neal to spend the rest of the evening with him, but he spoke without making any conscious decision about it. It felt too much like the end of an ordinary day with someone he shared his life with. He tried to tell himself he was just being polite. After all, Neal was an unwilling houseguest. But he knew that was utter bullshit. He wanted Neal’s company; he wanted to spend time with him.

And he could hear El’s delighted laughter in the back of his mind. He didn’t doubt that his ex was trying to fix him up with Neal – or more precisely – that she was trying to fix Neal up with him. She knew his type all too well, they’d been friends for the better part of a decade and a half, had been married for a solid eight years, and she’d watched men come in and out of his life.

Physically, yeah – Neal Caffrey pushed a lot of buttons. He liked _men_ , not boys, and Neal was certainly not a boy – despite the aura of vulnerability he cast. And okay, Peter had to admit to preferring blue-eyed brunets.

But it was more than Neal being a ‘type’. Peter could go into any bar in Chelsea and find a well-built blue-eyed brunet with a five o’clock shadow willing to go home with him and get soundly fucked. Hell, he’d certainly done that plenty of times over the years. Hook ups like that left him cold, even as they fulfilled his carnal needs.

What Caffrey was – beyond being a material witness in an on-going investigation – was smart. He was loyal. 

Peter went into the kitchen and took a fresh bottle of beer from the fridge. _Smart and loyal_. Hell, those qualities could just as easily describe the Labrador retriever he had a kid. No, Neal Caffrey was a lot more than that. 

From the other side of the apartment, he heard the shower turn off. It wasn’t hard to imagine Neal naked and wet, drying himself off, putting on _his_ sweatpants. When he’d made the offer, Peter hadn’t realized just how intimate it would feel, to know that another man was wearing his clothes. He didn’t even want to think about tomorrow morning. Was it too much to hope that he had an unopened package of plain white briefs just lying around?

He swallowed and tried to banish the image of the man, but it was impossible. He wondered if Neal was smooth or hairy or something in-between. Of course, his thoughts immediately went to other body parts. Was Neal cut? Probably, given his age – but he let the mental picture build of the man as he’d prefer him to be. Smooth, but with the finest treasure trail leading to an uncut dick.

Peter took a sip of beer and tried to change the direction of his thoughts, reminding himself again that Neal Caffrey was a witness, not potential dating material. As long as he was under his protection – No, wait, under the protection of the FBI, he had no right to think of him in any other way.

Talk about screwing up his career and blowing the case clean out of the water. Sleeping with Neal Caffrey would be the worst mistake of his life.

And yet the devil that seemed to take up residence on his shoulder kept whispering, _“But what a mistake to make, what a way to go.”_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Friday morning, ten o’clock, Neal was late and Elizabeth was worried. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d been late to work. Actually, make that the closed fist of one hand.

Neal was never late.

Worse, he wasn’t answering his cell phone or responding to any of the text messages she’d left. 

Last night, before they’d locked up, she took a good, hard look at him and thought that he looked like hell. Worse, actually, than the night he had first shown up at her door, fresh out of prison.

She asked if he was feeling all right and he fobbed her off with an excuse about a bad headache and too much wine the night before. Apparently Mozzie had visited and Neal thought he needed to match the man glass for glass. 

El didn’t think Neal was lying – either about the headache or about Mozzie – but he wasn’t telling her the whole story, either. If she hadn’t had a meeting with a potential client, she would have gone over to his apartment and fussed over him. Over the past sixteen months, she’d learned that Neal had a terrible habit of not taking care of himself. He’d go home and sit at his easel for hours, forgetting to eat, sleeping only when his body demanded it.

And she wondered if there was more to his worn-down state than poor living habits. Since Peter had shown up at the office last week, demanding to talk to Neal about some case, Neal had become distant again. He wasn’t so much pushing her away as putting back up the emotional walls he’d built during his years in prison. Walls that she’d spent a lot of effort dismantling. 

She wondered, and not for the first time, if he was depressed. It was hard to imagine the bright, happy boy she had grown up with having those problems, but life had kicked Neal in the teeth hard and her ex-husband’s pugnacious behavior might be threatening to tear down all that Neal had worked so hard to rebuild.

She loved Peter. She adored him. He was her best friend. But she wasn’t blind to his faults. He could be pig-headed and stubborn, a professional paranoid who tended to steamroll over people to see that justice was served.

Well, steamroll might be a little harsh, but he often had a way of looking at the world that was very black and white. And that wasn’t the best approach to dealing with Neal. She couldn’t help but wish that they’d met under different circumstances – like a lovely dinner that she’d arranged. Despite Neal’s time in prison and her husband’s career in law enforcement, she still thought that they’d be good for each other.

El stopped building castles in the air between her ex-husband and her cousin and tried calling Neal for the fifth time. The call went right to voice mail. She sighed and thought about calling Mozzie. But that was often a crap-shoot. Moz had at least a dozen different cell phone numbers, and night owl that he was, there was no guarantee that he would answer any of them this time of day.

She didn’t call Peter, though. He owed her for the way he’d tried to bully her, but it wasn’t like he was a cop or could send a squad car over to check on Neal.

She dithered and worried and paced the small office and finally broke down and called Moz. She was in luck.

Moz answered on the first ring and cut to the heart of the matter, _“Before you ask, I’ve heard from Neal.”_

The relief was tempered with annoyance and a bit of hurt. “He called you, but not me?”

_“Don’t get your panties in a knot. He had some problems last night, but your noble and heroic ex-husband was there to save him.”_

_Huh?_ “Peter? What has Peter got to do with Neal not calling me?”

 _“I don’t have all of the details about last night, but apparently Neal’s agreed to cooperate with the Suits. I’m on my way over to the FBI offices right now. At this ungodly hour. Will fill you in later.”_ Moz, being Moz, disconnected without giving her a chance to ask a single question.

El stared at the phone as if it had the answers. 

“Elizabeth, is everything all right?” She was so lost in thought that when Yvonne snuck up behind her, she shrieked.

“Sorry – sorry.”

“What’s the matter? And where’s Neal? He’s never late.” Her assistant had taken a motherly shine to Neal.

“Neal’s – he’s apparently at the FBI offices.” El didn’t bother to hide the worry.

Yvonne had been a silent witness to last week’s debacle and knew that Peter needed something from her bookkeeper. “You don’t have anything on the books until the Corelli party tonight at Top of the Rock. Do you want to go down and give everyone hell?”

She didn’t have to think twice. “Yeah, I think I’d like to do just that.”

“I’ll hold the fort until you get back.” Yvonne offered her a familiar green and white paper cup. “Take this, you look like you need it more than I do.”

That short cup probably contained a triple shot of espresso. “No – I’m okay. I think I’m wired enough. If I drink that, I might end up randomly assaulting people.”

Yvonne chuckled. “Go! And take no prisoners.”

“I don’t plan to.” She grabbed her bag and coat and headed over to the FBI offices, intent on retrieving Neal. If she had to leave bodies in her wake, so be it.

The smart thing to do would be to call Peter and give him a piece of her mind, but as she walked, she remembered what Mozzie had told her – that Neal had some problems last night and Peter saved him. She’d been too focused on Neal’s decision to cooperate with the FBI to pay much attention to that. All the worry that consumed her this morning flooded back, with interest. 

What the hell could have happened to Neal that he needed to be rescued by her ex?

And despite her worry, Elizabeth had to laugh. Of all the people she knew, there was no one better at rescuing anybody than Peter Burke. He’d rescued her more times than she’d like to admit. By the time she arrived at the FBI offices and was waiting for the elevator up to the twenty-first floor, she’d just about convinced herself that events had arranged themselves perfectly, and her ex and her cousin were about to embark on a grand romance. 

Since Peter’s return from his stint at headquarters in Washington, she’d only been at the White Collar offices a handful of times. The guard at the door didn’t recognize her and she couldn’t find a familiar face in the sea of agents manning the desks. The guard apologized to her, but he kept her waiting. Despite her impatience, El understood that this was more than mere protocol. 

“Mrs. Burke! What brings you here?” Finally, someone she knew. Clinton Jones came over to greet her. The man – not so young anymore – had talked his way onto her husband’s team about nine years ago. At one time, she’d had hopes that Peter would fix his interest in that direction. When she’d tried to nudge him that way, Peter gave her the lecture to end all lectures and she never raised the subject of her husband dating any of his agents ever again.

“You have my bookkeeper.” 

“Ah, right. Neal Caffrey.” 

El wasn’t all that surprised that Clinton knew just who she was talking about. He was Peter’s right hand these days, and probably deeply involved in the investigation that had sent Peter storming down to her office last week. “Where is he?”

Clinton deftly maneuvered her over to his desk and offered her a seat. “He’s in an interview.”

El had to ask, just to make sure. “Not an interrogation?”

“No, he’s not being charged with anything.”

“With Peter?”

“And his lawyer.”

She laughed at the disgust in the agent’s tone. “Mozzie came in with guns blazing? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“To say the least. Are you sure he’s actually a lawyer? He seems a little … odd for legal counsel.”

“Oh, he definitely is a lawyer.” When El first hired Moz, she had Peter do a thorough background check. It was one of the very few times she’d asked Peter for help like that. The report on Theodore Winters, a/k/a Dante Mozart Havisham, was fascinating. She’d never told the little guy that she’d looked into him. Some things weren’t worth the drama. “He’s a Harvard Law grad, class of ’89.”

Jones shook his head and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding, but nothing surprises me days.”

El then remembered that Clinton was a Harvard Law grad himself. “How long do you think they’ll be?”

“A while. The little guy has a way of slowing down things.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” She knew that was a long shot. 

“No, afraid I can’t.” He gave her an arch look. “But I suspect you’ll get it out of Neal later.”

“Maybe.” She wasn’t so certain. Neal kept secrets like a vault and she’d leaned not to pry. El crossed her legs and leaned back in the very uncomfortable chair. She settled in for a long wait, dropped her bag on the desk and pulled out her phone. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No – go right ahead.” Clinton tried to tilt his monitor away from her line of sight and of fussed awkwardly at the papers and files displaced by her oversized handbag. “Um, how about if I take you to the conference room? You’d probably be more comfortable there. And I can let Peter know you’re here, too.”

She agreed. Clinton brought her upstairs and asked her if she’d like a cup of coffee. Knowing all too well how bad the coffee was, she asked for tea, instead. El settled into one of the chairs and had the strongest feeling of déjà vu. It seemed like the best part of her life started in this very conference room. She thought back to that moment and it was kind of shocking to realize just how long ago that was. Fifteen years, give or take a few months. 

The room hadn’t changed all that much. There was new carpeting, new technology, new chairs. She’d changed, though. Older, of course. Smarter, definitely. As for wiser, the jury was still out on that.

A young agent – probably a probie – knocked on the door before coming in with a cup of tea. “Agent Jones had to go do something and he asked me to bring you this. I hope it’s all right.”

El reassured the nervous young woman that it was. It was hard to imagine being quite so young, so raw and uncertain. But back then, she had been. She shivered, realizing that had she not screwed up the courage to report the fraud she thought she’d uncovered at the Diarmitt, she might very well be dead. She never would have met Peter, they never would have become friends, he never would have married her just so she could have health insurance.

She wrapped her hands around the mug, but the physical warmth did nothing to ease the chill in her soul. She could have died and never had the chance to reunite with Neal. Neal might have fallen into the cracks and crevices that flanked an ex-con’s life. And Peter, would he have become the man he was now without their own connection? 

“El?”

She looked up, and there he was. He might have been her ex-husband, but he’d always be her best friend. “Hey, hon.” 

He came over to her and kissed her cheek. “I own you an apology.”

“Yes, you do.” At first, she thought he was talking about his impression of a bull in a china shop in her office last week, but then on second thought, that didn’t seem likely. “You do?”

“Yeah – I meant to call you this morning, to let you know what was going on, but things started snowballing and I lost all track of time.”

 _Neal_. She metaphorically slapped her forehead. “I was very worried when Neal didn’t show up at work this morning and when he didn’t answer his phone or any of my texts. Mozzie said you rescued him?”

Peter nodded.

El had to laugh. “I can’t help but think that you’ve become a proverbial St. Bernard. All you need is a little barrel of brandy around your neck.”

The both chuckled at the image.

“So, what happened?”

Peter sighed. “I went to talk to Neal last night, over at his place in Queens. ”

“Why?” El figured it was for the same reasons that brought him down to her office last week, but she couldn’t help but hope that maybe Peter just wanted to take Neal out for a bite to eat and get to know him better. 

Apparently not. He frowned and said, “Sorry, I still can’t tell you that. It’s an active case.”

She nodded. Now that they weren’t married, Peter couldn’t talk to her about his work. “Right – but you can tell me what happened.”

“We went up to his apartment and I smelled gas. Got everyone out of the building and called 911. Turns out there was a major leak. The place might have blown up.”

She couldn’t help but remember what happened in Harlem just a few months ago. “Thank god you’re all right. Is Neal okay?” 

“Yeah – he had a bad headache. Probably from breathing the gas over the past few days.”

“I’ve been worried about him. Since you paid that visit last week, he hadn’t been looking too good. He was worn out and tired all the time.” 

“I had him checked out by the EMTs, and they said he’ll be fine.”

“And what happened afterwards?”

It was strange how Peter wasn’t quite meeting her eye. “I took him back to Riverside with me. I didn’t give him a chance to call you, I didn’t want you to worry.” 

El wanted to clap her hands and dance around the room in triumph. While Peter might need something from Neal for his investigation, he could just as easily set him up in a safe house. And even if he thought that taking Neal home with him was the safest option, that didn’t explain the slight flush along his cheekbones. “So, is everything … okay?” She still didn’t understand why Neal didn’t call her.

Peter gave her a sharp look; he clearly knew the direction her thoughts were going. “Everything’s just fine. But Neal’s going to have to stay under guard for a few days.”

“Wait – if everything’s ‘just fine’ – why would he need to stay under guard?”

“El, I can’t really tell you that.”

She huffed in annoyance. “Seriously, Peter – you are keeping my bookkeeper under lock and key and you won’t tell me why?”

“All I can tell you what I’ve already told you – Neal’s a material witness in a case. That’s it, El. For your own protection, you’re better off not knowing anything else.”

“Okay, okay. I don’t like this, though. I don’t like the idea of Neal being in danger.” And for form’s sake, El added, “And I don’t like the idea of you using him.”

Peter gave her a funny look.

“What?”

“What _is_ Neal to you?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice. 

“He didn’t tell you?” Somehow, she wasn’t surprised.

“No, I asked and all he did was deflect and change the subject. What’s the big secret?” Peter looked at her again, but this time it was the sharp gaze of the veteran FBI agent, the man who loved to solve puzzles. “Is he your secret half-brother?”

She had to laugh. “Close. He’s my cousin. We kind of grew up together, and were best friends. At least until I was twelve.” 

“What happened when you were twelve?”

“He and his mother just disappeared. I never heard from him again. Until he turned up at the house, just out of the blue, about sixteen months ago.” She had to wonder how much Neal had told Peter about his past. Maybe a lot, because he nodded like that meant something. “He looked for me after he got out of prison.”

“And you gave him a job.”

Peter made it seem wrong, like she was a soft touch and Neal had taken advantage of her. “Neal’s my family and he needed me. He had no one, nothing more than the clothes on his back. He looked like he’d been through hell and wasn’t sure he wanted to survive the trip back. Can you understand what that’s like?” She wanted to point out to Peter that when she needed _him_ , he was there for her, without question. It wasn’t any different between her and Neal.

Peter just pursed his lips, like he wanted to argue with her, but knew better.

“Can I see him?”

“Yeah – we’ve taken a break. Moz insisted.” Peter stood up and motioned for her to join him. “I’ll take you to him – he’ll be happy to see you.”

He led her back through the office to a small, secured area and used his badge to disengage the door lock. She was about to make a comment about why Neal was being treated like a dangerous felon when Peter commented, “It’s procedure, and for his own safety.”

Neal was alone in the room and he looked, if not worse for wear, then simply tired. But his whole face lit up when he saw her. She held out her arms and he got up, letting her hug him tightly. “You okay?” She cupped his cheek and threaded her fingers through his curls.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

She let go and peered into his face. Yes, he actually did look better than he had. The lines of strain around his mouth had smoothed out; the pinched look around his eyes was gone. “Sweetie.” 

Neal looked over her shoulder, at Peter. “Can we have a few?”

Peter nodded and left them in privacy.

El had to note with a smile, “He’s probably listening, you know.” 

Neal shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Peter wouldn’t tell me why you’re here.”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

“He said that you spent the night at his place.”

That got a reaction. A very interesting one – similar to the flush that appeared across Peter’s cheeks when they talked about the exact same thing. “El – it’s not what you think.”

“I know that – but still…” She almost hoped that Peter was listening. 

Neal seemed uncomfortable, though, and she took pity and changed the subject. “I told him you’re my cousin.”

“How did he take knowing he’d once been married to a woman who’s related to a felon?”

She gave Neal a little shove. “You know, your whole ‘I’m a former criminal’ act is getting kind of old, so drop it.”

“Okay, sorry.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, what _was_ his reaction?”

“Actually, he'd almost figured it out. He thought you might have been my brother. And no, it didn’t seem to bother him in the least.”

Neal didn’t say anything and the conversation fell into an awkward silence. Elizabeth finally asked, “Did he tell you how long you’re going to have to stay here? Or are you going to a safe house or something?”

“No safe house. I get to hang out with the boys and girls with badges for the next couple of days. Peter wants to keep an eye on me. He doesn’t seem to trust the Marshals.”

Before she could comment about Peter keeping him on a short leash, Neal continued, “Which reminds me – you are NOT to touch the accounting programs. It took me six months to get your books straightened out and under no circumstances are you to even think of messing with them.”

“Okay, okay.” She knew better than to mess with the books. “But how am I going to run my business if you’re locked up?” She couldn’t help but tease him.

Neal turned pale at those last words.

El cursed her runaway mouth. “Sorry – I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets. “You trust Yvonne, right?”

“Absolutely.” She knew Yvonne from her days at the gallery, where she’d been Sebastian Diarmitt’s personal assistant. El snapped her up the moment Sebastian finally decided to retire and close the doors. Yvonne took care of all the everyday details

“Then I’ll work with her – on the phone, okay? I’ll have to give her passwords and she’ll see banking details for the business accounts. Will that be all right?”

“It’ll have to be. Bills need to get paid. I don’t have a choice.”

“Well, you do – I can work with you instead of Yvonne. But it’s going to be tedious. And last time you tried to use QuickBooks, I had to stop you from taking an axe to the monitor.”

She didn’t laugh because it really wasn’t funny. Back when she first started out, Peter had patiently showed her everything she needed to do to keep her business going. She did fine with it for the first few months, but then she got sick. Peter stepped in and kept things going financially until she’d recovered. She’d been so lucky – she survived a major brain tumor with little long-term side effects. Until she looked at numbers. It wasn’t that they didn’t make sense, or she couldn’t do basic arithmetic. But columns of numbers and data entry made her more than a little nuts. Nothing made sense and her normally even-tempered personality disappeared – it was like she became the Incredible She-Hulk. 

“El?” 

“No – you and Yvonne will do fine. She did most of the bookkeeping before you came, she’ll know what you’re talking about. I’ll only mess things up.”

This time, Neal was the one to hug her. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry about me.” He kissed her forehead, a rare show of affection. “A week, at most, and everything will be back to normal.”

She sighed and leaned into Neal, hoping that was true.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was not on the other side of the two-way glass, watching and listening in on the conversation between Neal and Elizabeth. He decided that his time was better spent following up with the New York City Fire Department than snooping on the pair.

After hearing what the NYFD had to say, he was glad he did. He went back to the interrogation room, only to find that the little guy was back. 

Mozzie had brought an array of sandwiches, and despite the news he had to share, Peter smiled at the sight of the three of them dining in his interrogation room like it was The Four Seasons. If he wasn’t mistaken, the bottle of wine the little guy brought was a pricey Barbaresco. Only Moz would bring a ninety-five dollar bottle of wine to lunch in the FBI interrogation room. He idly wondered about what was in the sandwiches. Probably something fancy like brie or smoked salmon or prosciutto. Or foie gras. Peter shuddered. He hated foie gras.

Peter watched the three of them and was tempted as hell to turn on the speaker and listen in. Neal wasn’t a suspect, but a cooperating witness, and it wasn’t as if he expected to hear anything of a self-incriminating nature. The whole scenario was a legal gray area – they were, after all, in an FBI interrogation room, one they had to know would be equipped with all sorts of covert observation equipment. And Elizabeth’s presence might very well cancel out the attorney-client privilege.

Peter wasn’t willing to risk it. Besides, the three of them seemed very happy. Neal was smiling and looked about a decade younger than he had the night before. Let them enjoy the moment. With the news he had, it wasn’t going to last. The outer door opened and Jones entered. They stood side-by-side for a few minutes.

Jones finally spoke. “You’re not joining them?” 

Peter shrugged. “Nah, not hungry.”

The other agent gave him a sharp look, but Peter didn’t respond. “What’s your take on Caffrey? He seems awfully close with your ex. A little more than employer-employee, to be honest.”

If that comment had been made by anyone else, Peter might have flayed the speaker alive. But Jones had been his right hand for a long time, and he knew more about the relationship between him and Elizabeth than anyone at the office. “I’ve got no issues with Caffrey, and my take on is what you see is what you get. He’s had a rough time, but he’s not a player. And as for him and Elizabeth, they’re cousins, apparently. El told me they grew up together and Neal looked for her after he got out of prison.”

“Ah. You know, I can see a definite resemblance.”

Peter watched them. Yes, even if you ignored the similarities in their coloring, there was something of a family resemblance. Oh, El’s eyes were bluer, her cheeks rounder, but it was there – the tilt of the head, their mannerisms. 

“You have anything for me?” Peter had asked Clinton to discretely get information about James Caffrey, Neal’s father.

“Not yet. He’s not listed in ViCAP, which doesn’t go that far back for dead criminals. And from what you told me, if I go through official Bureau channels, I’m going to get us a lot of unwanted attention. Wonder if any of the man’s old colleagues would be willing to talk about him. Caffrey was a D.C. cop, right?”

“Yeah. He was in the Metro D.C. force, lived in suburban Maryland.”

Jones rocked back and forth, hands in his pockets. “I’ve got some Navy buddies in D.C. who I haven’t seen in a while. Wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to go see them.”

Peter let a small smile curve his lips. “Maybe you could finally do your firearms recertification while you’re down there. Head out to Quantico. You really shouldn’t let things go this long.”

The other agent just nodded. “Yeah, I know. Quarterly re-certs are a pain, but might as well take care of it when I’m in the area. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to stop by the admissions office, see if I could get a peek at Caffrey’s application. He’s a material witness in a major investigation, need to make sure that his testimony will be unimpeachable. Can’t have anything come up and bite the government’s case in the ass.”

“Good thinking.”

Ever the naval officer, Jones gave him a two-fingered salute and Peter nodded his dismissal. In the interrogation room, Mozzie was shoving the cork back into the bottle and El and Neal were wrapping up the remainder of their lunch. It was time to deliver the bad news.

Peter unlocked the door and entered, doing his best not to laugh at the almost guilty looks on everyone’s faces. He was tempted to take the wineglass out of Mozzie’s hand and drain it, if just to join in the fun.

Oddly enough, it was Neal, not Elizabeth, who picked up his mood. “What’s the matter?”

He let out a gusty sigh. “Not good news. I just got off the phone with the Fire Department.”

“I can’t get back into my apartment?”

“I wish that was the case.” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. “Your apartment building sort of blew up this morning. The leak wasn’t just in the apartment. It seems that there was gas leaking from the mains where they came into the basement. Everything’s gone. I’m sorry.”

El hugged Neal, murmuring words of consolation. “You can stay with me, sweetie, don’t worry about it.”

“Actually, El, he can’t. At least not yet.”

She grimaced and let go of her cousin. “Right, yeah. I forgot, he’s a material witness.” Then she blinked, finally realizing that one thing had nothing to do with the other. “Wait, Neal’s in danger?”

Peter nodded, relieved that she finally caught on. “Yes, it’s possible that the leak wasn’t an accident.” He held up a hand. “And that’s all I can tell you. Neal needs around-the-clock protection and if he stays with you, you’re at risk, too.” 

Neal just sat there, white as a sheet. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No, thank god. Even though the building was a stand-alone and didn’t share any walls with your neighbors, the block had been evacuated.” Peter didn’t see the need, at least right now, to tell them that the Fire Department was sending in the arson squad to investigate. The gas mains in that neighborhood had been upgraded within the last five years and once they’d been shut off and the building ventilated, there should have been no risk of explosion. “I’m sorry, but everything’s gone.”

Neal shrugged, still looking numb. “Didn’t have all that much. Not a lot of clothes, my sketchbook and art supplies, a couple of extremely uninspired reproductions. The place came furnished. The rest came was from the local thrift stores.”

A thought occurred to Peter. “Did you have any papers there?”

“Papers?”

“Files, anything from before – you know – prison?”

Neal shook his head slowly. “No, I kept nothing important there.”

Peter thought that wording was interesting, but with El still in the room, it wasn’t something he wanted to explore. Moz, though, had picked up on it and was staring at Neal.

“Hon?” He turned to Elizabeth. “Neal and I need to pick up where we left off.”

“And you need me to leave?”

“Yeah, sorry. But you can’t be here.”

She sighed. “I do understand. Really, I’m not that clueless.” She gave Neal a kiss and whispered something in his ear. Neal nodded and in a quick movement, wrapped his arms around her.

Peter felt strangely emotional watching the two of them cling to each other – emotional and a little bereft. He’d been long accustomed to El relying on him. It was more than disconcerting seeing her as the strong one.

She gave Moz a hard glare, which Moz returned with interest. 

As she headed for the door, Elizabeth rested a hand on his arm. “Take it easy on him. Neal’s not as strong as he wants you to think.” 

Peter wanted to tell her he wasn’t about to bring out the rubber hoses, but thought better of it. It wasn’t worth joking about – he knew just how fragile Neal’s world was. He kissed her cheek instead. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

She kissed him back. “Thanks.”

The door shut behind her with a decisive click. Peter gave a longing look at the half-full wine glass still on the table, and then firmly put it out of his mind. He dropped a folder on the table and opened it. “Now we can get to the heart of the matter. Is this Vincent Adler?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter slid the folder across the table. Neal was shocked at how nervous he was. His hands were shaking and sweat pooled at the base of his spine as he picked up the file.

He hadn’t laid eyes on Vincent in almost five years, even in a photograph.

Neal took a deep breath and opened the folder. The face of the man in the photograph was a little older than the one in his memories, of course. Instead of a head of dark brown hair, expertly cut with a bit of an unruly wave to it, there were dramatic wings of white at the temples. But that was the only difference. The sharp, almost aristocratic planes of the cheekbones, the strong chin, the broad forehead – those were the same as on the man he had known and idolized.

Or he thought he’d known. The man who absconded with nine billion dollars of other people’s money, the man who let him plead guilty and rot in prison for almost half a decade was not a man worth idolizing.

“Yes, that’s Adler.” Neal closed the folder; he didn’t want to look at that picture for a moment longer than he had to. But he kept his hand over the file, unwilling to let it go.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Moz pried it away from him and looked at the picture. “That’s him? That’s the guy who –”

Peter grabbed the file from Moz. “You don’t need to see this.”

“I’m his attorney. I need to see what he sees.”

“You don’t have the necessary clearance.”

“Says who?”

“Says me – and believe me, I’ve checked.”

The two men started bickering about the legitimacy of government oversight and privacy. When Mozzie began ranting about FISA courts, secret societies, and the Star Chamber, Neal had enough. “Guys, guys – stop it, please. You’re giving me a headache.”

Peter and Moz looked at him, paused for just a second, then Moz started up again on the NSA’s spying on American citizens, Peter countered with the old something about ‘if you’ve done nothing wrong, what are you afraid of’ bit. It was like listening to five-year olds bicker about who was going to get the last cookie.

It all washed over him – not so much white noise – but like the sound of a train rushing past, loud and meaningless. He let his thoughts drift and invariably, they went to Vincent. The man in the picture looked good and Neal had to wonder just how the photographer got that shot. He snagged the folder back from Peter and looked at the picture again.

Neal blocked out Adler’s face, going so far as to put his thumb over it, and concentrated on the details around the man. The picture was taken from a distance, probably with a high-powered telephoto lens. There was a little distortion at the edges – the shot was through a glass window – but Adler was in perfect focus. So were his immediate surroundings, a restaurant. Neal focused on the place settings, the glassware, the décor. It was very high class and startlingly familiar. He’d even dined there a few times, with the very man in the photograph. 

“Paris, he’s in Paris.”

That shut both men up. Peter asked, “How did you figure that out?”

“I recognized the restaurant. It’s _La Tour d’Argent_ , and I’ll bet money I don’t have that this picture was taken from the south tower of Notre Dame. Alder’s living in Paris? He’s been there all this time?”

Peter nodded, looking impressed, but Moz wasn’t. He folded his arms across his chest, still unhappy with Neal’s cooperation. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Moz, you heard what happened to my apartment building. Do you think that was an accident? Everyone else is dead – Wylie, Bhara, Caldwell, even Kate – you told me that.”

“And last week, you were absolutely certain that Adler had nothing to do those deaths.”

He knew that Moz was playing devil’s advocate for a reason, but he didn’t have the patience for it right now. They’d gone over and over these same points during the interview this morning. Moz had gotten so argumentative that Peter had actually asked why he was treating Neal like a hostile witness. “Look, I changed my mind, let’s leave it at that. I’m cooperating with Peter, okay?”

As those last words were spoken, Neal wanted to take them back. “With the F.B.I. Helping…” He felt like he was flailing in too-deep waters and shut his mouth.

At least that silenced Mozzie. His lawyer grabbed the glass in front of him and polished off the rest of the wine. If there was one thing he knew about Moz, it was that he never got drunk. Or maybe he was never sober. Neal had yet to figure that out. 

Neal turned back to Peter, “What happens now?”

“You stay here.” Peter turned to Mozzie. “You, you can go home, or back to your office, or wherever you need to be that’s not here.” Peter opened the door and made a grand, sweeping gesture.

Mozzie griped and grumbled but headed for the bank of elevators. Peter tugged at his arm, steering him towards the offices. Neal pulled free. “Give me a second, okay?”

Peter nodded, clearly unhappy, but he let him go.

Neal went over to Moz, who was waiting for the elevator to arrive and doing his best to stay out of the camera’s lens. “Look, it’s going to be fine.”

“Probably, but getting back into Adler’s orbit is going to be inevitable. When they bring him back, you’re going to have to testify, you know that. You’re going to be tied up with the Suits for a good long time.”

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets. “It can’t be helped.” He didn’t want to tell Moz that he sort of didn’t mind. Spending time here, watching FBI agents go about their business, reminded him of everything he once wanted for himself. 

Moz just stared up at the floor indicator.

No, he wasn’t going to tell Moz that. “I’m going to need your help.”

Moz sighed and turned to him. “I’m here for you, _mon frère_ , but I hate to say it, you’d do better to rely on The Suit. He’s a little more … equipped … to watch out for you.”

Neal wasn’t sure if Moz meant that to sound quite as much like a double entendre as it did.

The elevator chimed and the car door opened, disgorging a few agents. Moz got in and gave him a shallow bow as the doors closed.

Neal returned to the FBI office, Peter was waiting for him on the balcony, like a statue dedicated to Truth, Justice and the American Way. 

Moz was right; Peter was probably better equipped to take care of him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was worried. Not about the case – those concerns would have to wait for tomorrow. He left messages with Interpol, but it was already after midnight in Paris and he wouldn’t hear back until Monday at the earliest, if he knew the French.

No, he was worried about Neal.

He was also worried about himself. Mostly because he was so worried about the other man. In less than twenty-four hours he’d gone from being Neal Caffrey, a witness with a puzzling backstory, to _Neal_ , someone he cared about.

Peter paced the length of his office, watching Neal and Mozzie, wondering what they were talking about. Moz didn’t seem to be trying to convince Neal of the evils of cooperating with the FBI, and Neal, for his part, seemed, well, okay.

Which was the most worrisome thing of all. Not an hour ago, he told Neal that his apartment building had blown up. Peter had thought that the man would be shattered at the knowledge that everything he owned was lost, but he wasn’t. He was upset – that was obvious, but he wasn’t devastated. Maybe Neal was good at hiding his feelings and would break down in privacy. Peter made a mental note to give him all the time and space he needed, within the confines of his own apartment.

Peter went out to the balcony, hoping his presence there would somehow encourage Moz to get going. It seemed to have worked when the little guy got into the elevator without so much as a dirty look. 

Neal sauntered back into the bullpen, hands in his pockets, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He seemed a lot more at ease with his surroundings than most people stuck in an FBI office would be. Then he remembered Neal’s long ago ambitions and how sad he’d been as he told him about getting turned down for the Academy, after his hopes had been so strongly encouraged.

Peter was going to call Neal upstairs, have him camp out for another couple of hours in his office, but Jones took him over to his desk, fetched them both coffee and talked with him.

He had to smile. Jones was usually the most no-nonsense member of his team, but he also had a way of getting people to open up to him. Peter headed back to his office and sent Clinton a message, asking him to keep Neal occupied for a while. He pushed aside the pile of routine paperwork that defined most of his day and called an old friend, one who had the right connections with the right agencies and just might be willing to help him.

“Reese, it’s Peter. How are you?”

_“Good – and it’s good to hear from you.”_

They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on inconsequentialities. His old boss hadn’t taken kindly to the forced retirement, but kept himself busy. He had friends, the kind who appreciated his experience and were happy to let him play in their sandbox.

_“I gather this isn’t a call just to see how I’m enjoying my retirement.”_

Peter smiled. “No, not really.” 

_“Maybe it might be better if we met for coffee?”_

Peter looked out over the bullpen. Neal was still talking with Jones. Price and Cruz had joined in and everyone was smiling. “Don’t suppose you’d like to head over to the coffee shop on Chambers and Reade?” Peter was referring to one of those nameless hole-in-the-wall places that were favored by white collar office workers during the day and blue collar delivery men after hours. It was the type of place that Starbucks and its corporate coffee culture would never be able to eradicate. He and Reese had met there a number of times over years since his mentor’s ‘retirement’. 

_“Just so happens that I’m in that very neighborhood. See you in twenty.”_ Reese didn’t wait for Peter to hang up before he ended the call. Typical.

He put on his suit jacket, but didn’t bother with his holster and gun, even though he felt a bit naked without them. Peter knew that if Reese was going to take him out, he’d never have the chance to draw his weapon. He’d never see it coming.

Peter paused before he got to Clinton’s desk, enjoying the sight of Neal smiling. This might be the first time he’d seen the man in such unselfconscious good humor and he hated to interrupt. Neal looked up and saw him. If anything, his smile broadened. “Just corrupting your agents. Trying to teach them how to juggle.” Neal had – of all things – Lauren’s precious rubber band ball, Price’s badge, and Jones’ wallet. With a wink at Peter, he set them all in motion. Peter watched as Neal’s hands moved faster than his eyes could follow, keeping all of the items aloft. And suddenly, the ball, badge and wallet were deftly returned to their rightful owners.

“Very good – do I need to keep an eye on _my_ most precious possessions?” Peter deliberately put a hand over his breast pocket, as if to protect his wallet. Then he realized that he was also covering his heart and dropped his hand.

Neal didn’t seem to notice. He just rocked back on his heels and held his hands up. “I’m not a thief.” His smile dimmed. “Despite what the government said.”

Cruz and Price melted away and Jones looked at his watch, as if he needed to be somewhere in a hurry. 

Peter told Neal, “Listen – I have to head out for a bit – but I’ll be back within the hour. Clinton will keep an eye on you.”

From the way he grimaced, Neal didn’t like that. “No offense, Agent Jones, but I really don’t need a manny.”

Jones, for his part, took the instructions and Neal’s demurral in stride. “I know, but we can’t let you just roam around lower Manhattan, not with a target on your back.”

Neal shoved his hands back in his pockets and shrugged, looking resigned and a little lost. “Yeah, right. Okay. Do you have anything to read?”

Jones grinned, “That’s something I can help you with. How do you feel about _Fifty Shades of Gray_?”

Peter didn’t bother to restrain a shout of laughter. He’d forgotten about Clinton’s terrible taste in literature.

By the time he got to the coffee shop, Hughes was waiting for him in a booth at back and was wringing out a tea bag. Peter was shocked at how _old_ his friend looked. It had been a few months since he’d seen Reese, but the man looked like he’d aged years.

Reese looked up and huffed out a sigh of annoyance at the expression he must have had on his face. “Yeah, I know. You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t.”

If this was the way Reese wanted to play it, then Peter had no choice. He didn’t comment and he tried his best not to worry at the deep circles and pallor that had replaced his friend’s normally healthy complexion.

A waitress came by with a cup and a pot of coffee and asked him if he wanted to see a menu. Eager to get her out of hearing range, Peter shook his head, telling her that the coffee was all he needed. The woman left without comment.

“So, what can you tell me about Vincent Adler?” On the walk over here, Peter played out several scenarios – the CIA’s involvement in this investigation was still _sub rosa_ and once Reese retired, his clearance should have been retired to. Of course, Peter knew that his friend still had access to some highly sensitive information. It was going to be all about how the questions were asked and the direction of the information.

It seemed that all his care was for nothing. “You mean Claude Ballatin? International arms trader, currently based in Paris, allegedly the city of his birth? Suspected of selling chemical weapons to the Syrian government? _That_ Vincent Adler?”

Peter choked on the coffee he’d just sipped. Of course Reese would get right to the point. “Um, yes.”

Reese smiled, obviously amused at Peter’s reaction. But his smile dropped. “He’s dangerous, Peter.”

“I know, but headquarters has tossed a case into my lap. They have a sighting and want us to arrest him.”

“Ah. I wondered when the FBI was going to get dragged into this mess.” 

“The French aren’t cooperating and I need to find someone who can positively identify Adler – or Ballatin – if that’s his real name.”

Reese sipped his tea, made a face, and dumped three packets of sugar in it. “That might be a problem. Whatever name he goes under, the man has done an excellent job of keeping out of the public eye. ”

“And yet your _friends_ know just who he is and where he is. Odd, don’t you think?” He leaned back against the booth, wondering how Reese was going to answer that.

“Subtlety doesn’t suit you, Peter.” 

Peter didn’t comment and just let the moment draw out. He could be subtle when the moment called for it.

Reese tipped his head, acknowledging the well-played hand. “My _friends_ have been keeping tabs on him, but their work lacks … hmmm … how shall I put it, credibility?”

Peter’s response was a bit dry, “That’s usually the problem with illegally gathered evidence. The Fourth Amendment exists for a reason.”

His old friend ignored the dig. “Regardless, you have your work cut out for you. Remember, I told you that man’s dangerous.”

“I know all about that.” Peter grinned and tapped the gold shield on his belt. “Besides, you taught me well.”

“True, true. So you know all about Adler’s inner circle? That they’re all dead?”

“Yeah, except for one.” Peter was reluctant to utter Neal’s name, even though he doubted anyone had ears on this place.

Reese nodded. “True. And I’ve been lead to believe that you won’t get much cooperation from that quarter.”

Peter didn’t have to wonder how Reese came by that information, but he wanted to know who was the mole in his office. Instead, he just blandly commented “He was reluctant, but he’s helping now.”

Reese gave him a considering look, one tinged with a bit of something that looked like admiration. “Peter?”

“What?”

“You’re not … ?” 

Peter had no clue what Reese was asking and why he was being so damn evasive. “I’m not … what?”

“You know…” 

The man’s prevarication was getting annoying. “No, Reese, actually, I don’t _know_.”

Reese stared into his cup and a flush climbed over his cheeks.

Comprehension hit him like a Mack truck. Peter couldn’t believe, of all people, that Reese would think this of him. He opened and shut his mouth like a gasping fish. “I’m not – I wouldn’t – How could you even think that?” But to his own ears, his outrage sounded a little forced. It wasn’t that he would use sex to convince Neal Caffrey to help the FBI, it was that he wanted to have sex with Neal Caffrey, full stop.

“Okay, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have thought that – it’s just that he’s, well, ...”

Peter didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to know how his old boss knew that Neal Caffrey was just his type. And then he was smacked by that proverbial clue-stick again. “How do _you_ know about him? And so much about him?” And more to the point, how the hell did Reese know that Neal Caffrey was gay? 

His old friend sighed. “If I said, you’re better off not knowing, would you let it drop?”

“No.” There was no need to elaborate.

“All I can tell you is that the man’s been on the government’s radar for a few years.”

“Why?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.

“Let’s just say his family has some history with us.”

That wasn’t what Peter expected to hear. “His family?” Peter remembered the story Neal told him, about his father’s involvement with organized crime. None of this made any sense.

Reese scrubbed at his face. “That’s all I can tell you, Peter. Leave it be. If he’s cooperating out of his own free will, good. Use it, run with it, catch that bastard and bring him back in chains. What Claude Ballatin has done makes Vincent Adler’s crimes look like a street corner game of Three-Card Monte.”

Peter wasn’t sure he could leave it be. The inconsistencies made the back of his neck itch and his gut ache. There was something going on and he didn’t like being kept in the dark. But he’d play nicely for the moment. Reese was a friend and his help was invaluable. “All right. Do you have any other advice for me?”

“I’ll make sure that the intel on Ballatin stays current and fed to you. And as for advice, make sure your passport is current. I see a trip to Paris in your future.” At that, Reese stood, pulled out his wallet and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. “Take care of yourself, Peter.”

Peter got up, too, and they walked out together. He had a horrible feeling that this might be the last time he saw Reese. “Thank you. For everything.” 

Reese’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “I’ll be fine, so stop looking like I just kicked your dog. We’ll talk when you get back. I’ll want all the gory details.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder and left him standing there.

He watched as Reese made his way up Chambers Street and disappeared into the bright sunshine of an early October afternoon, but his thoughts really weren’t on his old friend’s health. The puzzles surrounding Neal Caffrey were consuming him. They were like those Russian nesting dolls – just when you figured that you’d reached the last one, you discovered there was another secret hiding inside.

Peter turned and was going to head back to the office when he passed a small art supply store. He didn’t think twice before going in. The shop was dim and he blinked as his eyes adjusted. 

“Can I help you?”

The ancient wooden floors creaked as a young man came out from behind the counter. Peter blinked again, this time not so sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. The clerk’s hair was little more than a buzz cut, alternately dyed black and bleached white, like a chess board. His face was tattooed with horrendously realistic muscles and bones, like something out of an anatomy textbook. Even worse, to Peter, were his ears – they were pierced so many times it looked like the outer lobes were made of solid metal. There were more piercings on the man’s lips and brows and through his nose. Peter tried not to shudder. The sight of all those tattoos and piercings triggered his almost phobic fear of needles.

“Sir?”

“Okay, yeah.” Peter took a deep breath and focused at a point just past the guy’s shoulder. “I’m looking for a sketchbook and some good pencils.”

“Yeah, we’ve certainly got those.” The clerk cheerfully produced an array of pads and books and rhapsodized about the quality of each one. “I’d get this one – it’s German-made, has a sewn-in binding and will lay flat. The paper is acid free, one hundred pound weight, and a super smooth vellum finish. It’s perfect for pencil work. You can’t go wrong with it.”

Peter discreetly looked at the price – forty-five bucks. “And pencils?”

“Well, you’ve got your mechanicals and your wooden ones. Incense-balsam wood is the only type I’d recommend. There’s also solid graphite, but those are kind of hard to use. And then you have colored pencils …”

Peter’s head was spinning and by the time he’d finished, he’d bought enough drawing supplies to stock a small studio. The clerk handed him the receipt and his credit card. “Come back anytime.”

Walking back to the office, Peter tried hard not to think about his reasons for this little shopping spree. He tried to convince himself that he simply felt sorry for Neal. He’d lost everything and was stuck in an office all day with nothing to do. 

But that really didn’t explain why he just dropped three hundred dollars to keep him happy and occupied.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal didn’t make it past the first fifty pages of _Fifty Shades of Gray._ It wasn’t because the writing sucked, and it did. It wasn’t that the story took a rigidly heteronormative view of interpersonal relationships, something only slightly less annoying than the crappy writing. It was that the author was simply clueless about the power exchange that formed the core of any D/s relationship. He returned the book to the good-natured Agent Jones with a wink and went back to the conference room to wait for Peter’s return.

He looked over the few books on the credenza and figured that they were there more for show than any serious research. One was a seven-year old copy of the Generally Accepted Accounting Principles handbook, something Neal had memorized for the hell of it during his B-school days. He had no interest in refreshing his memory.

There was also a book about J. Edgar Hoover. It was billed as the “official biography” and Neal had to figure that there wouldn’t be any mention of the legendary pink chiffon in it. The last book was a thick tome on warrant law. Neal picked it up and started reading. It was the best of the three choices, and certainly better than _Fifty Shades_ , which wasn’t all that hard, to be honest.

He found the textbook surprisingly interesting, but given the revelations on the government’s spying on its own citizens, he had to wonder just how much of the law was observed in its breach. Neal was so engrossed in the intricacies of the exigent circumstances exception that he didn’t hear Peter come into the conference room until the man dropped a heavy brown paper shopping bag on the table.

“Huh?” Neal looked up. “What’s this?”

Peter mumbled, “For you – got you something.” He pushed the bag closer. “Hope you like them. I didn’t know what you preferred, so I got you a bit of everything.”

Neal blinked. Peter was actually blushing. He reached into the bag and pulled out a box of Prismacolor pencils – the complete color range. Another one of just shades of gray. Neal almost laughed – there were, indeed – fifty shades in the box. A third box contained a set of graphite core pencils in varying hardnesses. There was a set of erasers, and not one, but two self-contained sharpeners that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an exhibit on Art Deco.

Neal looked up at Peter and he muttered something about not using the same sharpener on graphite and colored pencils.

The last item in the back was a sketchbook, just one. But what a sketchbook it was. German-made with a supple leather cover, hand-stitched leaves. The paper was like a dream. Leagues beyond the cheap pads he picked up at the dollar store.

“Peter – ” He licked his lips. “It’s too much.” 

“Nah. I’m keeping you under lock and key. Can’t really give you access to any computers here at the office, and I don’t think that,” Peter tilted his head and looked at what he’d been reading, “Warrant Law is going to hold your attention for much longer.”

Neal grinned. “Don’t know about that. This exigent circumstances thing is pretty nifty – you use it much? But seriously, this is way too much.”

Peter laughed and ignored Neal’s question. “It’s the least I could do. Enjoy them.”

Neal touched the boxes of pencils, the sketchbook, even the erasers and sharpeners, with reverence. Back in the day, when money was no object, these were what he’d have bought for himself, if he had the time to indulge in a hobby. “Oh, I will, I will.”

“I’ve got a few more things I have to do before we can get out of here. If you want, we can stop at Macy’s, you can pick a few things to tide you over.” Peter made a vague gesture at him. 

Neal tried not to wince. His finances were tight and a visit to Macy’s would probably tap him dry. “Honestly, I’m more of a thrift store kind of guy.”

That got a reaction from Peter. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Pretty much everything but my underwear came from Goodwill.”

Peter didn’t comment, but his frown spoke volumes. “Look, if you need a loan, it’s not a problem. And I can probably get you some money from the crime victim’s fund.”

Neal’s stomach gave a little twist. Not at the idea of taking charity, but at Peter’s generosity. “No – a thrift store will be fine. But thanks.”

Peter sighed and nodded, looking unhappy, but not willing to push the issue. “I think there’s a consignment shop in my neighborhood. Tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ll take you there.”

Neal wasn’t sure that Peter understood the difference between thrift store and consignment shop, but he wasn’t going to educate him. At least not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Peter left him alone, but Neal was quick to note how the connecting door between his office and the conference room was carefully left ajar, and Peter had his chair tilted to keep him in his line of sight.

He should have felt a little oppressed by the man’s intense regard, much the way he had during his early days in prison, when he discovered what living in a fishbowl really meant. But he didn’t. Peter’s watchful eye was different. The guards didn’t care about him – he was a number, a statistic. The other cons on the cell block were only interested in what he could do for them.

Okay, Peter might need him, but when Neal touched the sketchbook again, he knew – beyond any doubt – that he cared about him, too.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Five o’clock, and if it wasn’t full dark, it was pretty close to it, especially in the caverns of lower Manhattan. Peter maneuvered through the side streets to the West Side Highway, and despite the usual Friday night bumper to bumper traffic, it was still the fastest way to get home.

Neal was quiet, much like he’d been during this morning’s drive downtown. The car interior was dim, at least until they reached the highway, where the setting sun – clear of any skyscrapers – glided Neal’s profile like an illuminated manuscript. Peter was struck again by the man’s beauty, made all the more stunning by his unconscious grace. The light, though, didn’t hide any flaws; picking out the lines of strain radiating from the corner of his eyes, the threads of silver at his temple and even in the scruff of his beard. Time hadn’t been cruel to Neal Caffrey, but it hadn’t been all that benevolent either.

“What’s the matter?” Neal spoke for the first time since they pulled out of the Federal Building garage.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, you keep staring at me.”

Peter bit his lip, a little embarrassed that his regard had been so obvious. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little worried about you.”

“Worried? How come?”

Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, Peter concentrated on changing lanes. It bought him a few seconds to come up with an explanation that didn’t make him sound like a teenaged girl. “Well, I guess if I found out that I just lost all of my worldly possessions, I’d be a little less …” He searched for the right word, “copasetic about it.”

“What, you wanted to see me cry?” Neal sounded like he was laughing at him.

“Well, nothing quite so dramatic. You just don’t you seem very distressed. You don’t have to bury your feelings. I’m honestly not one for endless displays of stoicism, believe me. I won’t be embarrassed if you get upset.”

“Ah.” Neal let that single syllable hang there.

“‘Ah?’ Just ‘ah’? That’s it?”

Now Neal was laughing, but there wasn’t a lot of good humor in that sound. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Neal gave a heartfelt sigh. “When I was three, my father was killed. My mother told me that he ‘went away’ and would never come back. The last thing I can remember about him was that it was the morning and he was leaving for work. He told me to be a good boy and listen to my mother and he’d have something special for me when he got home. I waited and waited but he never came home. A few days later, my mother put me in the car and we drove for what felt like days. I had to leave all my toys behind and I couldn’t cry about that because I was a big boy now and needed to be strong for mommy.”

“Neal – ” 

“That was the first time I had lost everything – but it was okay. It’s how I ended up with Ellie – Elizabeth. I was three and she was five and we became best friends. My mother and hers were first cousins and they’d stayed close despite the distance between D.C. and Illinois. So we settled down in a tiny little house a few blocks from where El’s family lived. I grew up and went to school. And when I wasn’t in school, I was pretty much living at Ellie’s place, and her parents were my Aunt Donna and Uncle Allen and my life was wonderful.”

Elizabeth had told him just this morning that Neal had disappeared when she was twelve, but Peter wanted to hear the story from Neal and hoped he’d tell him. “What happened?”

Neal took a deep breath and continued. “I was ten years old. It was probably late August, I’d been playing all day with Ellie and the kids in the neighborhood. Stickball, hide and go seek, or maybe one of those games that only the kids who played knew the rules, I don’t really remember and it’s not important. It wasn’t that late when I got home but my mother was crying – she did that a lot – and she pulled me inside. The house was dark and the windows shut and the curtains were drawn. There were two men and a woman in the living room and next thing I knew I was given a small bag with some clothes, told I could pick one toy and then I had to leave. I couldn’t say goodbye to anyone and I was never supposed to call or write to anyone from the neighborhood, or talk about them. My name wasn’t Neal Caffrey but Danny Brooks and I had to remember that or I’d be in big trouble.”

Peter said nothing, letting Neal tell his story at his own pace.

“I guess you figured it out.”

“It isn’t hard. You and your mother were put into WitSec.”

“Yeah. Something to do with my father." Neal didn't dwell on that. "I hated being called Danny, and when I went to school, I made sure everyone called me Neal. I told everyone that it was my middle name and I wouldn’t answer to ‘Danny’. By the time I was in high school, I was registered as Neal Caffrey and it was as if Danny Brooks never existed. Which he didn’t.”

Peter wasn’t sure what to say about that. The Marshals weren’t doing their job if they let that happen.

“I know it was stupid, but you have to understand, no one told me what was going on and I’d lost everything for the second time. I wasn’t going to let them take my name, too.”

“What about your mother?”

Neal shrugged. “What about her? She spent most of the time crying and sleeping. Or pretending that nothing was wrong. I took care of myself.” 

“The Marshals didn’t keep track of you?”

“I don’t remember seeing them after we’d settled in St. Louis. But that doesn’t mean anything; they could have been there when I wasn’t home. I spent years trying to figure it out, but I can’t understand why we were put into WitSec. Until I saw my father’s case file, I had thought maybe he was a hero or something and there were people who wanted revenge. But he wasn’t – he was criminal of the worst kind. A murderer and a drug dealer. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Then Peter remembered what Reese told him this afternoon – about the government’s interest in his family. In the context of Neal’s revelations last night, Reese’s information didn’t make sense either. 

Neal sighed. “Do you now understand why I’m really not upset about losing my stuff and that apartment? It’s happened to me before – I’ve lost a hell of a lot more than a handful of shirts and a couple of pair of chinos. I’ve lost everything so many times that I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have anything worth holding onto. ”

Peter just nodded. He understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.

The trip continued in relative silence. Neal asked if he could turn on the radio and Peter gave him leave with the wave of a hand. Neal tuned in an oldies station. The DJ cheerfully announced that he was playing drive-time hits from way back when – the best of the late Seventies and early Eighties. Billy Joel was singing “Only the Good Die Young” and Peter felt way too old. He remembered when this song came out, watching a performance on a episode of Saturday Night Live when he was a kid. 

The music cut out when his cellphone started to ring, the Bluetooth connection cutting out the radio. It was Elizabeth, and he hit the answer button on the steering wheel.

“Hey hon.” They might have been divorced for six years, but they never lost their own affectionate shorthand.

_“Hey, where are you?”_

“Stuck in traffic, a little north of the Boat Basin. What’s up?”

_“Nothing much. Just checking in. How’s Neal?”_

“He’s sitting right next to me, so he can answer for himself.”

_“Yes, he can. Neal, how are you doing?”_

Peter snuck a glance at his passenger. Neal sat up and donned a bright smile, as if Elizabeth could see him. “I’m doing just fine. Peter hasn’t slapped the cuffs on me or threatened me with an iron shackle. At least, not yet.”

El’s amusement was audible. _“If he does, let me know – we can sic Mozzie on him.”_

Peter interrupted. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

_“I’m sure you are, mister! But seriously, Neal. Are you okay?”_

“Seriously, Elizabeth, I’m fine. You have the Corelli’s anniversary party tonight, right?”

_“Yeah, and I’m on my way there. If Brad wasn’t so demanding, I would have had Yvonne handle it and come over.”_

Neal laughed. “I think she’d quit if you even suggested that.”

Peter listened to Neal and Elizabeth’s chatter about the various events she had lined up for the next few days. The conversation made him a bit nostalgic. It felt like ages since he’d talked like that with El. Their lives, once deeply intertwined, now seemed so separate. How he allowed his ambition to get in the way of what really mattered?

_“Okay, sweetie, I’ve got to run, but I’m free on Sunday and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’m coming over on Sunday. I want to see both of you.”_

He sighed. This was as unavoidable as a train wreck. There was no way of dissuading Elizabeth when she was this adamant so he might as well give in with grace. “Brunch?”

_“Okay – I’ll bring the food, you just make sure you’ve got enough Stoli for the Bloody Marys.”_

Peter didn’t even blink. “Your wish is my command.” The exit he needed was coming up and he cut hard across three lanes of traffic, ignoring the screeching tires and car horns from irate drivers. “See you then.”

_“Can’t wait.”_

Neal chimed in, “See you, Ellie. And tell Brad that there’s a reason why six-foot ice bears are only four feet tall.” 

Peter had to wonder at Elizabeth’s reaction to Neal’s use of a diminutive. She was very particular about her name, and as far as he knew, he was the only one allowed to call her ‘El’. But she didn’t seem to mind. Family had privileges, he guessed.

Neal reached over to the console and pressed the disconnect button. “She saved my life, you know. She gave me a home and a purpose. She held on tight when all I wanted to do was let go.”

“She said you found her right after you’d gotten out of prison.”

“Yeah. I was desperate. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t have a place to stay and no money. It wasn’t bad the first few nights, sleeping outside. Being able to see the stars, the moon. Hearing the birds sing. You miss that in prison.”

“But you couldn’t live on the streets forever.”

“No. I went to the library and used a computer to track Ellie down. It’s funny. When I went into prison, they took my wallet. I hadn’t left any money in it – pretty much didn’t have any left anyway. I wasn’t so stupid to leave credit cards in there, either. It was just my driver’s license and of all things, my New York Public Library access card. It was still valid and I was still linked to a bunch of databases from my days with Adler.”

“So, you looked her up?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t believe that she was living in New York, and had been in New York for so long.”

“El moved here right after college.”

“That’s what she told me. So much time we lost. Do you know we actually lived about three blocks from each other at one point? I had a condo on Prince Street when she was living on Greene. And we never crossed paths.”

His apartment building loomed in front of him. Peter turned into the residents-only parking lot and turned the car off. “Elizabeth is a good woman.”

“A good person. She always was, even when we were kids. I’d sooner go back to prison than hurt her.”

Peter didn’t doubt that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal felt sorry for Peter, who was probably more accustomed to listening to the replay of last night’s ballgame on the drive home than the life story of a down-and-out former felon. Peter told him to get comfortable while he took care of dinner: the remains of last night’s pizza. Neal took himself and the bag of art supplies into the guest room. He still didn’t know what to make of the extravagant gift. Peter cared about him, as odd as that seemed, but he was sure about the nature of that caring.

He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t blind when he looked in the mirror. Men liked what they saw when they looked at him, and for a while – a stretch of four years – he wasn’t averse to using that to get what he needed. It was nothing he was ever going to be ashamed of. He looked at it as a simple commercial transaction, nothing more, nothing less.

He also knew that when Peter looked at him, he liked what he saw. Hell, Neal looked at the man and liked what he saw, too. 

But Neal didn’t want to be anyone’s project, or worse, a pet. He liked Peter Burke enough not to want to use him and he respected him enough that he wanted to be considered – or at least treated – like an equal.

The scent of melting cheese and tomato sauce teased him out of the bedroom. Peter had changed from his suit into some extremely casual clothes – an old Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that might have been new when Peter was a freshman. Neal licked his lips, suddenly hungry for something more than reheated pizza.

“Beer or wine?”

“Wine with pizza?”

“Well, you had wine with your sandwiches at lunch… And for the record, the U.S. Government frowns on the consumption of alcoholic beverages on its property, bars on military bases notwithstanding.”

“If I told you that Mozzie doesn’t trust anything that wasn’t bottled in a certain volcanic region in Piedmont, Italy, would you accept that as an excuse?”

Peter laughed and Neal really liked the sound of that. “Moz is, to say the least, a character. Shall I presume that you’d prefer beer?” Peter didn’t wait for an answer and handed him a cold bottle.

To tell the truth, the cold beer was perfect, and not just as an accompaniment to the pizza. It helped wash away the bitterness of his memories. Telling Peter the sad, almost pathetic story of his childhood, made it seem less like the tail that wagged the dog of his life and just another piece of the past.

Neal appreciated how Peter made an effort to keep the dinner conversation light, especially after all the heavy emotional baggage he’d dumped on him on the drive home. The pizza was actually better the second night and Neal felt safe, satisfied and possibly even happy. But he wanted to make sure that Peter understood something. “I meant what I said about Ellie – Elizabeth. I would never, ever do anything to hurt her. There’s no one who matters more to me than she does.”

“Neal, I believe you.”

He looked into Peter’s eyes and read absolute sincerity there. “We need to keep her safe and as far away from this as possible.”

Peter nodded. “I can’t keep her from coming here, but it would be best if you kept your contacts to a minimum. Don’t call or text her unless you’re at the office.”

Neal understood. “You never know who’s listening?”

Peter just raised an eyebrow at him, in silent confirmation. “On a slightly different subject, there’s something you need to know.”

The pizza and beer that had been so satisfying a few moments ago were now a leaden lump in his belly. “What?”

“I’ve asked Clinton to look into your application to the FBI and to make some inquiries about your father. There are too many inconsistencies between what you were told and what’s been going on.” 

“You can’t think that my father had anything to do with Adler.” 

“No, maybe not Adler. But there is something strange about your past. I don’t like the fact that you’ve been jerked around all your life, that there are people behind the scenes manipulating everything for their own satisfaction.”

Neal had to ask, “Aren’t you putting yourself at risk? If there are people who are – as you say – manipulating things, can’t they get to you?”

“Anything’s possible and it’s a chance I’m willing to take. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got my own strings to pull.” Peter grinned and Neal was uncomfortably reminded of a shark. “Anyway – I just wanted you to know.”

Neal drank the last of the beer and wiped his mouth. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, I guess.” Peter’s smile softened.

Peter told him to head into the living room and joined him there a few minutes later.

“So, what happens now?”

Peter shrugged. “We’ll prep an affidavit for you and you’ll sign it on Monday, but I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to get stonewalled with the French police. They don’t seem particularly interested in arresting him and I’m sure that they’ll spend the better part of a week poking holes in your identification of one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen – as the noted Ponzi schemer, Vincent Adler.”

“So, all of this is for nothing? Adler’s just going to spend the rest of his life in Paris, getting away with what he did?”

“What about ‘innocent until proved guilty’? When I first came to you, you were pretty damn adamant that Adler was innocent.”

“Call it a reflex reaction. I had little reason to cooperate with the FBI, and I’d told myself that Vincent was innocent so many times that the lie came naturally.” Neal leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Can we just let that be? Please?”

He felt the couch dip as Peter sat down next to him. “Yes, Neal, we can. But trust me, the FBI is not letting this go. The man in that picture is Vincent Adler and he’s going to be arrested and brought back to the States. He’s going to stand trial for his crimes and spend a good part of the rest of his life in prison.”

Neal heard the conviction in Peter’s voice, the deeply rooted belief in the powers of truth and justice, of fidelity, bravery and integrity. He also heard something else, a second truth, another story. And something else clicked. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen’? Adler isn’t French, his parents were German – they emigrated to the U.S. after the war and before he was born.”

Peter flushed bright red and grimaced. He scrubbed at his face in frustration. “This is the part of the job I hate – managing all the secrets and the lies. You figured out that Adler is in Paris. What I didn’t tell you is that we’ve learned that he’s been living in France since he disappeared, apparently as a French citizen. The French government has been reluctant to cooperate; they don’t accept that the man we’ve identified as Vincent Adler is really an American citizen in hiding.” 

Neal considered this information. “I guess it’s plausible. Vincent loved Paris; he used to say he conquered it during his wild youth. I thought that was a bad joke, to be honest. He was fluent in French, but German was practically his native tongue.”

“He’s probably got more than a few bureaucrats in his pocket to help maintain the fiction.”

Neal wiped at his eyes, tired of this day, of this conversation. It depressed him, made him realize how much of a fool he’d been for so long.

“Neal? You okay?”

He looked at Peter and his heart twisted at the concern on the other man’s face. He shrugged. “Once again, I’m slapped in the face with my own stupidity, how easily I was played.”

“I never met the man, but I have to imagine that he was very charismatic.”

Neal nodded. That was a good way to describe him. “There was something magnetic about his personality. It was very difficult to say no to him.” Neal tried not to bite his lip, feeling like he’d given away too much. He kept talking, hoping to put an equally truthful, but more innocent spin on his words. “I didn’t have any intention of working for Vincent. I was happy at the firm I was with. I was working hard, making more money than I could spend in a lifetime; I had no reason to go into private equity.”

“What happened?”

“I met Vincent at one of the few times he was at a semi-public event. He’d heard about me and arranged for me to attend a dinner for a foundation he’d created. I had no clue who he was but he seemed to know everything about me – at least professionally. In retrospect, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about my father, about WitSec. I was seated next to him at dinner at we talked about the commodities markets, some theories about competitive market strategy -”

“Your Master’s thesis?”

“Yeah, and he told me, right then and there, that he read it, too. He flattered me, said it was as groundbreaking as John Nash’s work on non-cooperative game theory. I thought he was being ridiculous, but hell, I _was_ flattered. To be compared to a Nobel Laureate. Adler wanted me to come work for him – to be his Vice President of Acquisitions. I’d have free range to build the Adler Group, reporting only to him. He was very persuasive.” Neal could remember that evening like it was yesterday. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the dinner, the taste of the wine, the strong scent of the man’s cologne.

“How long did you hold him off?”

Neal’s jaw dropped, how in the hell did Peter know? “What?”

“How long before you took his job offer.”

 _Job, right_. “About a week. Vincent just kept upping the offer. He’d even gone to my bosses and told them he was head-hunting me, just so there’d be no mistake. They all but pushed me out the door. Vincent later told me I was worth every penny of the million dollars he paid them.”

“Paid them?”

“To let me go without a fight. He bought me, lock, stock and barrel, but I went willingly. His offer was too good to refuse, the opportunity was too challenging to pass up.” Neal didn’t want to talk anymore. He didn’t want to think about Vincent, about his past. He wanted, more than anything, to just exist in the moment. “Is there a game on tonight?”

“Game?” Peter seemed puzzled by the abrupt change of topic.

“Yeah, basketball game. Aren't the Knicks playing or something? Hasn’t hockey season started?” There was a remote on the coffee table and Neal reached for it, and was about to turn the television on, but Peter reached for his hand. The heat from that touch almost burned him, but that simple human contact warmed the parts of his soul that had gone cold and dark.

Peter didn’t seem to realize what that did to him. “You really want to watch a ball game?”

“Why not? You’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future, why should I wreck your Friday night routine any more than I already have?”

Peter let his hand go and Neal was chilled again. “First of all, I don’t consider myself ‘stuck’ with you. If it was a problem, I’d have given you over to Jones for the night. And secondly – how do you know about my Friday night routine?”

Neal just looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Ah. Elizabeth.”

“Yes, Elizabeth. She’s been singing your praising to me for months.”

“She really wanted to set us up on a blind date?” Peter didn’t sound as appalled as he had last night, when Neal first told him about his ex-wife’s romantic machinations.

“Yes, she did. She's been relentless.”

Peter looked thoughtful. “Okay, at the risk of sounding like a narcissist, what did she say about me?”

Neal laughed. “Only good things, of course. Other than you’re a workaholic with very plebeian taste in food and a decided preference for certain New York sports teams. But besides those flaws, she said I’d find you funny and compassionate.”

“Funny and compassionate, really?” Peter seemed pleased at the description.

“She said you were a cross between John Stewart and Pope Francis, maybe. But better looking.”

“I guess I could do worse. So – you didn’t want to date me?” Peter actually sounded curious.

Neal couldn’t believe the direction this conversation was taking. But it was better than bearing his soul about his time with Adler. “Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be that good a fit – FBI agent and ex-con?”

Peter gave him a rueful smile. “I guess, on paper, it doesn’t sound too promising.”

“Yeah.” Neal pushed himself up and out of the couch. Of all the difficult conversations this evening, this one seemed the most dangerous of all. “You know what? I think I’m kind of tired. It’s been a really long day.” He was giving Peter the same excuse he had last night, when he turned down his offer to watch television. At least it was the truth.

“Long day is an understatement. Go get some rest and don’t worry about getting up early tomorrow. We’ll head over to that consignment store after breakfast and you can get what you need. But if you change your mind, there’s a Target a little further uptown.”

Neal nodded. Target might be doable on his budget, even more than the shop that Peter kept talking about. Riverside was not exactly a neighborhood for the Goodwill/Salvation Army set. But that was something to worry about tomorrow. He was suddenly so tired he could barely stay upright.

And he wanted nothing more than to escape into sleep.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter realized his mistake almost as soon as they’d entered the consignment shop, what with the hushed and genteel atmosphere, the sign in elegant script offering help with fittings by the store’s on-premises dressmakers and tailors, and of course, the discreet price tags.

The rail-thin, fashionably dressed clerk – as different from the young man in the art supply store as possible – was polite and a touch disdainful as she took them to a small room in the back where the men’s clothes were on display.

Peter didn’t say a word as he watched Neal flip through the racks of suits and jackets, a carefully neutral expression on his face. But Peter knew that Neal was unhappy and frustrated. That was clear from the set of his shoulders, how the muscles clenched along the strong column of his neck. 

“I’m sorry, Peter – there’s nothing here for me.”

“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize how expensive this place was.” Peter randomly picked up the sleeve from a nearby suit jacket and checked the price. His eyes popped.

“It’s okay – you didn’t know.” Neal threaded his way through the racks to stand next to him. “That’s a nice suit, by the way. It’s a Briony and you’d look good in it.”

Peter frowned. “I don’t think so.” 

“You really don’t like the idea of pre-owned clothes, do you?”

“It has nothing to do with being new or used; I’m simply not interested in spending more for a single suit than I do on clothes in an entire year.”

Neal checked the tag and laughed. “Two years, maybe?”

Peter was relieved at that sound. “Probably.” He put a hand at the small of Neal’s back and steered him back to the front of the store. “Come on; let’s find a place a little more budget friendly.”

The clerk didn’t even look up when they passed by. She seemed far too consumed by the latest edition of some celebrity periodical to pay attention. Peter reached around Neal to open the front door and they all but collided with a woman just about to enter.

Neal grabbed the woman to keep her from falling and they sort of danced their way out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. What she’d been holding – an old-fashioned men’s garment bag – didn’t survive the impact and slipped to the ground. 

Someone came running, Peter reached for his gun and Neal did his best to shield the woman from the imminent danger. 

Except there was no danger – the man was in a chauffeur’s uniform and he knew the woman. “Ma’am, ma’am, are you all right?”

“Ah, Frederick – I’m fine. Just enjoying an unexpected game of touch football with these gentlemen.” 

Peter re-holstered his gun and reached for the bag on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the zipper didn’t survive the trauma and as he picked it up, clothes fell back to the ground.

“Damn.” He tried to catch them, but only ended up making an even greater mess.

“Here, let me.” Neal got to his hands and knees and carefully gathered up what looked like – to Peter’s admittedly untrained eye – very fine wool suits. 

Neal seemed to think so, too. “These are fantastic.” 

“They belonged to my late husband, Byron. He really had great taste in clothes.”

Neal’s eyes went wide as he looked at a label. “This is a Devore.”

“Yes, he won it from Sy himself.”

Even though he had no clue who this Sy Devore was, Peter asked, “Won it?”

The woman replied, “He beat him at a back door draw.”

Neal seemed impressed. “Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”

“Yes, he most certainly did. And so did I.”

Peter stood there, feeling a little like an extra on a movie set, or maybe in one of those strange Off-Off Broadway plays that El liked to go to. He certainly knew what a back door draw was, but why playing poker with Sy Devore was such a big deal escaped him.

Neal, in the meantime, handed off everything to the chauffeur – everything except the apparently very precious jacket. “May I?”

The woman gave him a delighted smile. “Absolutely.”

Peter handed the broken garment bag to the now over-burdened chauffeur and took possession of Neal’s jacket – the one he’d been wearing for the past three days. Now he felt like an escapee from the set of Project Runway.

Neal slipped the suit coat on and Peter had to blink at the transformation. The change in clothes was a big part, but there was something else, too. If Peter was the fanciful type, he’d say that it was a moment akin to Clark Kent revealing his own very special suit.

“Oh, it fits you like a dream.” The woman ran her hands over Neal’s shoulder and chest. Peter carefully and deliberately squelched the twinge of jealousy. She was old enough to be _his_ mother. And there was definitely something a little maternal in how she smiled at Neal.

Neal, for his part, sighed and fiddled with the buttons before taking the jacket off. “I don’t think, however, this is for me.”

“But why not?”

Neal tilted his head towards the consignment shop’s door. “You’re looking to sell these, and I’m afraid a classic like this – or any of those other suits – is far out of my price range.”

“Sell?” The woman seemed confused. “I was planning on donating them.”

Peter handed Neal’s jacket back to him. “I don’t think they take donations here.”

The woman peered up at the sign over the door, ‘Riverside Luxury Consignments – Discriminating Designer Labels Only’. “Ah, oh.” She looked back at Neal and Peter. “Would you like them?” She gestured for Frederick to hand the clothes to Neal.

Before Peter could say anything, Neal answered. “You really should sell them. They’re probably very valuable.”

The woman made a face. “I’d feel funny selling my husband’s clothes. Really, I was just planning on donating them. I came here because it’s local and my granddaughter said she’d shopped here. She likes vintage things. I must have misunderstood what she told me.”

Neal looked at Peter, as if he was seeking his permission or approval. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of the woman’s generosity. She seemed genuine and despite the well-deserved paranoia he had when it came to Neal, there was nothing about her that set his gut churning.

It was an awkward moment, out here on the sidewalk. Neal, at least, remembered his manners and introduced himself. “And this is my friend – ” There was just a very slight pause at that word, “Peter Burke.”

The woman seemed to put a different spin on the word than Neal intended, or maybe he’d intended just that interpretation. She gave them a conspiratorial smile and held out her hand. “June Ellington.”

The chauffeur seemed unsure of what was going on. “Ma’am, shall I take these back to the car?” He hoisted the ungainly pile of clothes.

June gave Neal a challenging look. “If you don’t take them, I’ll just bring them – and the rest of Byron’s clothes – to Goodwill. Or the Salvation Army. Whichever one has parking nearby.”

Peter watched the exchange; still not sure what was really going on, but nothing was sending up alarms.

Neal blinked and smiled, again transformed. “Then I’d be delighted to accept.” 

Peter huffed a sigh and started to help the chauffeur sort out the clothes while Neal and the woman – June – moved a little closer to the curb, away from Peter. It didn’t take much to manipulate the chauffeur so that he could keep a close eye on the pair. Neal recognized Peter’s watchful eye and gave him a discreet nod. Or maybe not that discreet, because June turned and nodded at him, too.

Peter gave them a dry smile, once again feeling like an extra in a play. He didn’t let the chauffeur hand him the suits, though. They stood there a little awkwardly until Neal and June deigned to rejoin them. 

“Peter, June was just telling me about the most amazing apartment she has!” He was looking at the woman, grinning like a kid in a candy store.

“Yes, it’s just a small studio. It used to be my husband’s … game room for a while, but I’ve been using it as storage since he passed away.” She sighed. “I figured it was time to get it cleaned up.”

Peter had to ask, “Has your husband been gone long?”

“A few years.” She looked over at Neal. “I hadn’t thought about renting it out, but I find myself intrigued by this young man’s story.”

Peter looked over at Neal, wondering just what he’d managed to tell this woman in five minutes. 

He got the answer soon enough. June casually tossed out, “Byron was an ex-con, too.”

Peter wanted to tell her that Neal was an innocent man, but this probably wasn’t the time or the place.

“Look, my home is a few blocks from here, we can have lunch and you can tell me the story of how an FBI agent got together with an ex-con. I do love a good romance.”

Peter pulled Neal aside and whispered, “Did you really tell have to her I was an FBI agent?” 

Neal just smirked and gave him a look. “I think she figured that out all by herself.”

This was going to be a very long afternoon.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal hadn’t really meant to drive Peter crazy, but he just couldn't help himself. Some little devil on his shoulder made him put that not-so-subtle emphasis on ‘friend’ when he introduced Peter to that lovely woman, June. At first, he was going to call Peter his bodyguard, which would explain the gun, but then he’d probably have to explain why he needed a bodyguard. Those would be outright lies, not deflections or misdirection, and he had a personal code against lying to anyone’s face.

So, letting June think that he and Peter were a couple seemed like the best approach. And so what if he was indulging in a bit of fantasy, just because he’d really like to have Peter Burke as his boyfriend. Neal almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of that description, _boyfriend_ , because Peter Burke was no boy. But yeah, he would, he most definitely would like that.

“More tea, dear.” June lifted the teapot.

“No, but thank you.” Her eyes were sparkling and from the smile on her lips, Neal had the feeling that she knew just what _wasn’t_ going on inside his head.

“Peter?” June held the teapot towards the other man, who also declined. Neal didn’t figure Peter for a tea drinker, regardless of the quality of the brew.

“So, would you like to see the apartment?”

“Ms. Ellington – ” Peter started to cut her off, but she beat him to the punch.

“If you persist in calling me that, I’ll keep calling you Agent Burke, and then Neal darling will be very uncomfortable.” 

Peter glared at him and he could see the question in that aggravated expression. _Neal darling?_ But Neal didn’t respond and just let the tiniest smile curve his lips. He hadn’t had quite this much fun in a very long time.

“Okay, _June_. But Neal’s living arrangements are fine.”

“Really?” The woman raised her eyebrow and invested a lot of meaning in that single word.

Neal could see Peter’s temper rising like a cartoon tea kettle. Peter couldn’t explain to June just why he had to stay in his apartment, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to come across as a bully. Neal finally took pity on him.

“June – I’m sorry, I’ve been playing a game. Peter’s my cousin’s ex-husband and he was kind enough to take me in. There have been a few bizarre things going on and Peter’s been looking into them. I wouldn’t feel right if I did anything that would jeopardize your kindness and well-being.”

June looked from him to Peter for verification. 

“That’s the truth. Neal’s my ex-wife’s bookkeeper and she’s been concerned about him.”

“And your apartment building burning down?”

“That’s the truth, too. Or actually, it blew up and then burned down. You heard about the gas leak in Long Island City?”

“Of course. It was on the news all day yesterday. That was your place?”

Neal nodded and hoped that June wouldn’t ask any more questions. Peter was probably ready to kill him for what he’d already said.

June frowned. “Still, you’re going to need your own place eventually. Unless you and Peter really are …” She paused delicately, “Together.”

Neal gave her his best smile. “We’re good friends and Peter’s helping me out of a jam. But you know what they say about fish and houseguests …”

June laughed, “After a week, both begin to smell.” She stood up. “A delay is probably for the best right now. The apartment really isn’t in move-in condition, but let’s just take a look.”

Neal felt like he didn’t have any choice in the matter and got up as well. Peter, obviously not willing to be left behind, trailed them as they climbed up to the fourth story. June opened the door at the top of the landing and gestured for them to go inside. “It’s not big, but I think you’ll find it suitable.”

He really didn’t know what to expect. The Ellington house was a Beaux-Arts beauty, the lower floors exquisitely decorated, but it was very clear that this was a home, not a showplace. In his high-flying days, he’d been in many such overly-done spaces where the public areas were like settings out of a magazine, but the private spaces were dark and cramped. 

This room, at the very top of the house, was a surprise. A most delightful surprise.

“I’m sorry for all of the clutter.” June gestured helplessly. There were boxes and piles of books and what looked like, of all things, a roulette wheel and a large poker table. He remembered what June had said, that this was her late husband’s ‘game’ room, and Neal had to wonder at the games that had been played here.

June waved to an area blocked by racks of men’s clothes. “There’s just a small kitchenette in here – suitable for a bachelor. If you really wanted to cook, there are four other kitchens in the house that you could use.”

“Four?” Neal hoped he didn’t sound rude, but that seemed like an extraordinary number of designated cooking facilities.

“Yes. There are two main kitchens, the servant’s kitchen, and the warming kitchen. Frederick has his own kitchen in the garden apartment. So I guess that makes five kitchens in total.” June shrugged at the embarrassment of riches, or at least, of kitchens.

Neal walked around the clutter and tried to envision himself living here. It wasn’t hard. The midday light was muted as it glowed through the old glass skylights, a perfect balm to his artist’s soul.

“You haven’t seen the best part, yet.” June pushed aside more racks of clothing – presumably Byron’s, and Neal had to think that the man was a true clothes horse – and flung open a set of heavy draperies. The dust turned to a river of molten gold as sunlight poured into the room.

He gasped, or maybe Peter did. Or possibly both of them had. Kept hidden by the draperies was a wall of glass, actually French doors leading out onto a vast terrace almost as big as the apartment itself.

“Come.” June beckoned as she opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony.

He followed, like a lamb to the slaughter. And in a way, it was a slaughter, because his senses were devastated. The view of Manhattan stretched out before him, silver and gold and almost impossible to comprehend.

There was a steady warmth at his back. It was Peter and his hand on his shoulder was a welcome anchor. He uttered a single word, “Yes.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The rest of the weekend passed quickly. Before they left the Ellington mansion, June had insisted that Neal look through the racks of clothes and take what he’d need for the next few weeks. Peter had resigned himself to carrying half a wardrobe back to his apartment building, but June just told them not to worry. The ever-loyal Frederick would drop everything off at Peter’s apartment before the end of the day.

Neal was transformed, and Peter thought it had little to do with the clothing and everything to do with June’s kindness. This woman didn’t know Neal, had no reason to give him the time of day, but instead had opened her heart and her home to him. 

Yes, Neal had Elizabeth, and he was so obviously grateful to her – but she was family and their relationship was rooted in that benevolent obligation. As for _his_ relationship with Neal, well – that certainly didn’t start out with any benevolent intention. And despite his own burgeoning feelings, he had little clue as to what Neal felt for him, if anything.

June and her generosity came without any strings, and that was something unique for Neal, who’d become far too accustomed to getting kicked in the teeth by life. Such spontaneous kindness was rare in the universe, a gift to be cherished. Neal certainly hadn’t been a broken down wreck of a man – he laughed, he teased, he got angry, he challenged and argued, but Peter could never escape the feeling that just below the surface, Neal was like an abused dog waiting for the next blow to fall.

Looking at him now, dressed in a perfectly fitted gray suit, white shirt and a tie that El would probably say was lilac but Peter thought of as simply purple, he looked like the definition of confidence. Again, it was more than the good clothes; it was as if Neal had recast himself as someone worthy of every good thing in the universe.

Neal was settled in the conference room, sketchbook opened and he was obviously drawing something, completely intent.

Clinton came into his office for their usual Monday morning coffee and catch-up. “I thought you said Caffrey was broke and he lost everything he owned?”

“He is and he did, why?”

The other agent rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, I don’t know too many broke homeless guys who can afford a tie, let alone a suit, like that.”

“Ah,” Peter grinned and explained, “Neal has a fairy godmother whose late husband just happened to be the exact same size as him.”

Jones nodded appreciatively. “Lucky man.”

“He deserves it. Trust me.” That was all Peter was going to say on the matter. “What have you got?”

“A bit, actually. I was able to track down a few of James Caffrey’s old squad mates. I wasn’t all that shocked that most pretended not to remember him, but there’s one guy – he’s still living in the area – who says that for the price of a cup of coffee, he’ll tell me what he knows. He was Caffrey’s trainer when he got out of the police academy and he has, in his words, ‘a few suspicions’ because the Jimmy he knew would never be on the take.”

Peter felt a small glimmer of satisfaction. This might be the lead he was looking for. “Be careful, Clinton. This isn’t an official investigation – at least not yet – and you’re not going in with any backup.”

“I could take Cruz, she says she’s due for a firearms recertification, too. Plus, she’s got some friends at Quantico – at the Marine Base, not the Academy. They might be interested in getting a cup of coffee, too.”

Peter had forgotten that Lauren had started out in the Marines and served two tours in Iraq before applying to the FBI Academy.

“If she doesn’t mind, she’s got my permission to join you. Just get the paperwork done before you go. The travel office is getting pissed off about all the post-trip approvals the office has been submitting.”

“Ah, the pleasures of being an ASAC are never-ending. I wouldn’t want to be in your seat if you gave me this week’s winning lottery ticket.”

Peter laughed. “If I did, you’d collect your winnings and quit.”

“Probably.” Clinton gave him his customary salute and went back to his desk. Peter turned and looked through the glass wall into the conference room. Neal was still sketching, but he must have sensed his stare and looked up. Peter gave him a smile, and felt like he had won the lottery when Neal smiled back.

It had been a good weekend, one of the best he could remember in a long time. As promised, Elizabeth came over a little before noon on Sunday. She burst into his apartment like a brightly colored whirlwind, handing him an enormous bag from Russ & Daughter and pushing a similar sized bag from Bloomingdales on Neal.

Neal, of course, objected and Elizabeth did her best steamroller impression. Peter had received those Big Brown Bags more than a few times. His ex-wife had a thing about men’s underwear and had never hesitated to impose her preferences on him (and Peter suspected, her boyfriend _du jour_ ). At least he’d finally gotten her to stop picking them out from the International Male catalogue.

Every Christmas, every birthday, she gave him a package of underpants. Boxer briefs. The tightest of tighty whities. Silk boxers with hand-embroidered and extremely realistic phalluses. Once, even a thong – although that really was a joke on his fortieth and she didn’t expect him to actually wear it. 

And although they’d been divorced for nearly six years, Elizabeth maintained the tradition, telling him that just because she couldn’t touch, didn’t mean she couldn’t look and he still had the best ass and package of any man she knew. Lately, she’d been taken with the virtues of highly constructed undergarments, the type designed to showcase his manly attributes.

“Mansilk?” Neal had pulled an all-too-familiar box out of the Bloomingdale’s bag. Peter covered his mouth and tried not to laugh at the other man’s appalled expression.

“Elizabeth – ”

She’d cut him off at the knees. “Don’t you ‘Elizabeth’ me, Neal Caffrey. What if you were hit by a bus and the EMT was hot and sexy and he needed to give you mouth-to-mouth?”

“Well, I’d hope that if he had to give me mouth-to-mouth, he wouldn’t be checking out my underpants.”

“You know what I mean, silly. You’ve got a nice ass, you need to flaunt it.”

Neal had given in and graciously thanked El for her kind and thoughtful gift, irony thick in every word. After that, the three French-cuffed shirts from Thomas Pink and the pair of Cole Haan oxfords didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Brunch had been an uproarious affair, as different as possible from the sedate lunch with Neal’s new friend the day before. El hadn’t trusted him to provide the vodka, and in truth, both he and Neal had forgotten. Amongst the smoked fish, cheese and fresh bagels was a bottle of pepper-flavored Stoli and a large can of spicy V8 juice. And from somewhere Elizabeth had sourced freshly grated horseradish. She’d raided his pantry and found the rest of the necessary spices – probably acquired from their last brunch date six month ago. Peter had watched, caught between horror and amusement as El added half a bottle of Tabasco, a heaping tablespoon of black pepper and vast quantities of that horseradish. The resulting concoction was delicious and hot enough to blow the top of his head off.

By mid-day, brunch had been just a fond and fish-flavored memory. 

Neal had finished the dregs in his glass, looked mournfully at the empty pitcher and let out a respectable belch before closing his eyes and dozing off. Elizabeth had beaten him to the Land of Nod. She’d passed out with a girlish hiccough about twenty minutes earlier

Peter hadn’t minded playing designated driver, so to speak. He’d held off after the first glass, switching to beer to cut the heat, then to water while El and Neal went to town.

They were adorable, cuddled together on his couch, and it wasn’t hard to picture them as children, getting into all sorts of trouble. He’d covered the two of them with a blanket and did his best to keep things quiet as he cleaned up from their bacchanal. Three hours later, the sun almost completely below the horizon, El shook herself awake.

“Mmmm, don’t breathe so loud, please.”

Peter had looked up from the case file he was reviewing. “Hung over?”

“Yes. And shhh. Please.”

He’d gotten up and retrieved a bottle of cold water from the kitchen and handed it to her. “This feels all too familiar, you know?”

“Drink it – it’s the best thing for a hangover. That and these…” He’d held out a small bottle of aspirin, which she’d greedily grabbed out of his hands.

Eventually, Neal had smacked his lips and opened his eyes, looking just as wrecked as El. Peter had fetched a bottle of water for him, too. El shared the aspirin.

He’d watched the pair maneuver around the apartment, slowly recovering from their overindulgence. El was a little quicker than Neal, and by six o’clock, she’d put on her shoes, reapplied her lipstick, brushed out her hair, and sailed out the door with a pert, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or wait, maybe that’s exactly what you should do.”

Neal had holed up in his bedroom for another hour or so, re-emerging, sketchbook and pencils in hand and they’d spent the rest of the evening in quiet companionship.

This morning, Peter’s jaw had all but hit the floor when Neal came out of the bedroom wearing one of Byron’s suits. Maybe it was how the tie was still slung, unknotted, around his neck, or how the collar was opened and revealing the strong column of his neck or how the shirt cuffs poked out, still undone, from the suit coat. 

He was reminded of a very old-fashioned word, one he’d once read in some paperback romance of Elizabeth’s – _dishabille_. At the time, he couldn’t figure out why the novel’s hero had been driven to sexual distraction by the sight of a woman’s mussed attire. Seeing Neal so carelessly attired in such finery, he understood completely. Peter had been grateful that he was seated, with his legs crossed, as Neal made his way into the kitchen for coffee.

Neal sat down next to him, smelling like his own soap and Peter’s mouth went dry. He’d been grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them when Neal asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of cufflinks? Ellie’s generosity didn’t stretch that far.”

“Sure – hold on.” Peter all but ran to his own bedroom and took as much time as he dared; needlessly opening and closing drawers, pretending to search for the inexpensive cufflinks he’d gotten to go with a dress shirt a few years ago. Cufflinks that were still in their box in the top drawer of his dresser, right next to his first pair of handcuffs and a few old yarmulkes that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. He’d needed the time to get back some vestige of control.

But by the time he’d returned to the kitchen, cufflinks in hand, Neal was completely put together, a package worthy of a glossy magazine cover, and somehow, a lot less threatening to his peace of mind and his sense of self-control. Neal had thanked him with a smile, donned the cufflinks and picked up his sketchbook and a small zip-lock bag of pencils. Peter had made a mental note to go back to that art supply store get Neal a proper pencil case during lunch.

By noon, all thoughts of pencil cases were completely forgotten. Lauren had decided to spare the probies and go for a Starbucks run herself. When she got to the lobby, she spotted Kyle Bancroft, his boss, signing in at the security desk. She’d texted Jones who alerted him and Peter just about managed to get his desk into some semblance of order when the man himself walked into the office.

He liked and respected Section Chief Bancroft, who’d taken the time to come up to New York and personally convince him to step into Reese’s shoes. Their paths had crossed a few times during his stint in D.C., and it had been nice to know that his work on the money laundering task force had been noticed, even if the work had ultimately been a waste of time. 

Peter had no idea why the Section Chief would be in New York and he was hoping that his visit to the twenty-first floor was merely a stopover on the way to another meeting. It didn’t bode well for anyone when a higher up made the trip from D.C.

Peter went down to greet the man. Knowing how little patience Bancroft had for small talk, he got right to the point. “What brings you to White Collar?”

“You.”

Shit Peter hoped his face didn’t betray his thought. 

“Let’s talk in your office.” Bancroft didn’t wait for an invitation; he started up the stairs, only to pause midway at the sight of Neal Caffrey intently sketching in the conference room.

Peter explained, “He’s a witness in a current case.”

Bancroft finished the short trip and went right to Peter’s office. “I know.”

Peter didn’t know whether he should be relieved or even more worried. He gestured for Bancroft to take a seat and closed the door behind him. “That’s why you’re here. The Adler case.”

Bancroft nodded, not giving anything away.

Peter’s gut began to churn. “Are you shutting it down?”

Bancroft looked through the glass separating his office from the conference room, watching Neal for a few long moments before turning his attention back to him. “Hardly not – I’m here to give you this.” He handed Peter a large sealed envelope. “You need to read it, right now.”

His gut churning in overdrive, Peter opened the envelope. There was a security form on top of the thick file, denominating the contents as ‘Classified – Secret.’ The file itself was well worn, as if it had passed through many hands over quite a few years.

The right side of the file was a log documenting surveillance on the subject, Ballatin, Claude, from as far back as 1992. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately, not. He’s been on the radar for a long time. Until recently, he’s been classified as neutral-friendly and a convenient conduit for support in some very gray zones.”

There were times when Peter hated his employer. At least the man sitting across from him seemed equally disgusted. “So, what’s changed?”

“I understand you know about Ballatin’s activities in Syria?”

Peter nodded. 

“Add Sudan to the list. Venezuela, the Ukraine. Fomenting turmoil in former Soviet client states and then supplying arms and chemical weapons to the government has recently become a specialty of Ballatin. In essence, he’s creating his own market.”

“So, we were okay with him when he was just stirring the shit. We don’t like it when he starts making the shit splash.”

“A colorful metaphor, but accurate.”

Peter continued to read through the file, taking note of the timelines in the surveillance and the gaps. “Was anyone tracking him when he was in New York?”

“The CIA was only interested in his overseas activities.” 

_Which wasn’t to say that the NSA didn’t have a similar file on him._ “And his disappearance? The Justice Department contends that a bulk of the money that went missing was illusory, that his investment funds were mere Ponzi schemes, like Madoff’s. Do you think that the money was real and he’s been using it to fund his activities?”

Bancroft’s expression gave nothing away. “That would be something. It’s kind of hard to imagine such a byzantine scheme, isn’t it? The U.S. Government just stands by when a private citizen steals – what, nine billion dollars – because he’s using the stolen money to promote the Government’s overseas interests.” His tone was just as bland as his face, he sounded almost disinterested. 

“Not that hard to imagine.” Peter kept his tone equally bland. “So, what happens now?”

“You know that Interpol issued a Red Notice for Adler back in ’08.”

“Of course – that’s what’s so frustrating. We’ve identified Ballatin as Adler, we’re about to send over Neal’s affidavit confirming his identity, and they should arrest him immediately. But I have the feeling that’s not going to happen.”

Bancroft confirmed those suspicious. “No, it’s not. Ballatin has paid off a lot of people. Of course, we could spend months negotiating with the French government, go through all the diplomatic channels, pound our chest and make demands, but we won’t get anywhere. And worse, we’ll tip our hand with the people who are getting paid to keep Ballatin informed. He’ll do a flyer and we’ll never get this close to him again.”

“So, how are we going to move the French to arrest him?”

Bancroft smiled and Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You’re going to use your powers of persuasion on a bunch of locals. You’re going to go to Paris with that Red Notice in hand and you’re going to ask them to arrest Vincent Adler, noted American fugitive. You’re got to take Neal Caffrey with you, just in case the locals want proof. And as soon as Adler is in custody, I’m going to arrange for the biggest media circus since the NYPD made Dominic Strauss-Kahn do the perp walk at One Centre Street. Alder, Ballatin, whatever the hell the man’s name is, can bleat like a sheep all the way to the slaughter, but he’s going to find himself without any friends when the story goes public.”

Peter wasn’t sure he shared his Section Chief’s optimism. He returned the folder to its envelope and handed it back. “I’m going to need to share this information with Neal. If he’s going to be involved in this any more than he already is, he can’t fly blind.”

Bancroft, thankfully, agreed. “You’ll use your best judgment. Keep the details to a minimum. CIA fought me over letting you see this. Langley would have its panties in a collective wad if they knew that Caffrey was brought into the loop.”

Peter sighed. “I hate this crap. We’re supposed to be the good guys, right?”

“I know.” Bancroft asked, “Your passport’s current, I hope?” 

Peter recalled a similar comment from Hughes and nodded. 

“Do you know if Caffrey’s is? If he even has one?”

“I’ll find out, but we can get that expedited if we have too.” Peter figured that they’d probably need to do that, considering that Neal’s former apartment and its contents was now a pile of smoldering rubble.

Bancroft leaned back in the chair, his expression intent. “You know, this probably won’t work and it may mean your career before it’s over. Mine, too.”

Peter hid his worry behind a philosophical shrug. “Life’s not without its risks.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was dying to know who was in Peter’s office. He was someone Peter liked, but also respected and deferred to. That much was apparent from the body language. And the other man had a similar level of respect for Peter but was accustomed to being in charge. He’d always been good at reading people and his four years in prison honed that skill – it became necessary for his survival.

So was lip-reading. But he was out of practice and they weren’t facing him. Besides, he really needed to pretend not to focus on the business in the office and concentrate on what he was sketching.

Peter Burke, his favorite subject – at least since Friday evening.

Here, in the FBI office, in a glass-walled conference room, in full view of the entire office, Neal kept his sketches extremely tame. Facial studies that attempted to capture the humor, the life of the man. Nothing he’d be ashamed to show anyone. Not like the sketches buried in the middle pages – arm porn, shoulder porn, Peter’s perfect ass caressed by an ancient pair of Levis. He hadn’t worked up the courage to tease out a sketch of Peter’s package framed by a pair of those extremely naughty Mansilk briefs, or how he’d imagine the man without his shirt.

Resolving to ignore Peter and the man in his office, Neal focused on the project at hand – Peter Burke, reading. He didn’t know why, but the sight of Peter in his club chair, reading the Sunday Times with a pair of cheaters balanced on his nose, was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. Maybe it was all the fierce intelligence, maybe it was the glasses – just a tiny indicator of human frailty, maybe it was all that masculine beauty in repose. Whatever the reason, Neal was absolutely compelled to capture that image for his own personal posterity.

A knock on the conference room door interrupted his concentration. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Neal.” It was Peter. 

“Do you need the room?” Neal started to gather up his pencils.

“No, I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Peter stepped aside and the man who’d been in Peter’s office entered the conference room. “This is my boss, Kyle Bancroft, Section Chief for the Financial Crimes division.”

Neal was a little startled by the man’s searching look as he held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Caffrey.”

He was about to chalk those words up to mere politeness, when Bancroft continued. “It’s a very brave thing you’re doing and I’m honored to meet you.” The sincerity in the man’s voice was impossible to discount.

“I’m just doing what’s right.” Neal hoped he didn’t sound like a fatuous prat.

“It’s rarely about ‘just what’s right’, Mr. Caffrey. You know you’re going to be in for a difficult time?”

Neal blinked, not sure what the man was getting at.

Bancroft explained, “After Adler’s arrested – he’s going to fight tooth and nail and it’s going to be a very public and very dirty battle.” 

He shrugged. “It’s not like I have a reputation or a livelihood to worry about. Adler can say what he wants.”

Agent Bancroft stared hard, as if he was trying to send a message. Neal almost wished that Peter would leave to room to let the guy speak freely.

“Like I said, my name isn’t important and my family knows just what’s going on. I can live with the consequences and so can my family.”

Bancroft nodded, reluctantly accepting his answer. “Okay. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Caffrey.” 

Neal was at a loss, feeling like he’d just missed half of the conversation. “Likewise, sir.”

Bancroft turned to leave, but paused and turned back. “A word of advice: listen to Peter, he knows what he’s doing. Trust him, he’s a good man.”

Neal couldn’t help but notice the flags of high color along Peter’s cheek as he flushed from the praise. The imp in Neal made him answer, “I know he is. And I’ll do my best to listen to everything Agent Burke has to say.”

That brought a small smile to the Section Chief’s lips, as if he understood all of Neal’s subtext.

Neal watched Peter escort his boss to the front door, he watched them shake hands and chat for a brief moment. Then he looked up at him, nodded and left.

Neal sat down and tried to parse out just what the man had wanted him to understand. The words echoed in his mind, _“a very public and very dirty battle”_. Did he mean…

 _Ah_. Of course he did, and why did it not surprise Neal that this man knew about his relationship with Vincent. But it seemed that Peter was still in the dark and Neal was happy to keep him that way, if just for a little while longer. He took so much pleasure in Peter’s high regard, he didn’t want to see that turn to disgust a moment before it had to.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Lauren, thanks for the heads-up.” Peter stopped by Cruz’s desk and picked up her rubber band ball, tossing it from hand to hand.

She grinned and grabbed the ball from him mid-toss. “My pleasure, boss. May I ask, what did Section Chief Bancroft want?”

“The Adler case.” Clinton joined them. “As if we couldn’t figure that out, with him going to see Caffrey.”

Peter grinned at the pair. “Did you two even bother to try to get any work done?”

“I’ve finished the travel requests for the D.C. trip – for those re-certifications you want us to do down in Quantico,” Lauren noted with a sly wink.

“Well, you’re going to need hold off on those,” Peter told her.

“I thought that was priority?” Clinton puzzled.

“Not anymore – we’ve got an operation to plan.” Peter headed back to the conference room without waiting to see if the two agents followed. This time, he didn’t bother knocking – Neal wasn’t even pretending to be busy. His sketchbook was closed, the pencils neatly piled in their baggie. He asked abruptly, “Your passport – was it destroyed?”

Neal shook his head. “No, I put all of my personal papers in a safety deposit box that was paid up ten years in advance. My lawyer – not Moz, but the one who represented me in the government’s case – has the key.”

“Good. We’ll need to see him sooner than later.” Peter was looking forward to that visit. He’d read through the case files from the DOJ and there were some very interesting communications that needed to be explained.

Cruz and Jones joined them and Peter closed the door. “I’ll be bringing in other agents as this develops, but right now, you two are on point.”

“Whatever you need, Peter.” Clinton was, as always, steady and dependable.

“Okay, this is what’s going on.” Peter gave them a high-level briefing, leaving out the CIA-supplied details on Ballatin’s activities. “Basically, we’re going to go to a local Parisian police department with the Interpol Red Notice and tell them we’ve located Vincent Adler. I’m hoping that the man’s payoffs haven’t gotten down to that level.”

Neal spoke up. “Adler’s not the type to even think about paying off the local police. He’s not only a big picture thinker; he doesn’t actually ‘see’ the little guys.”

“Good – that’s good. So, he’d pay off the precinct captains and figure it would trickle down?” Peter paced back and forth, thinking. 

“No – more like he’d pay off the Minister of the Interior and expect that the entire French national police force would fall into line.”

Neal’s comment was surprising, considering his former stance on Adler’s innocence. “You know that he’s paid people off?”

Neal shook his head. “No, not at all, but I know him and if he _was_ paying anyone off, it would be the people at the top – the ministers, the cabinet secretaries. He’d fully expect those payoffs to trickle down.”

Peter stopped moving. It was like he was hit by a brick. “You know, we’ve been flying blind about Adler. We’ve got the Department of Justice files on his operations, but we know nothing about _him_.” He looked at Neal.

“And you want me to help?” Neal sounded resigned, but not the least conflicted.

“We would appreciate it. Having you confirm Adler’s identity is key, but if you could help us fill in the blanks, it can only improve the operation’s chances of success.”

“Whatever you need, Peter.”

The sound of his name, spoken with such quiet intensity, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Okay, okay – where to start?” Peter stalked around the room, trying to organize his thoughts. “We know that Adler’s been living in Paris – why?” He looked at Neal for an answer.

“He loved Paris – the art, the culture. But he always said that he felt that it was easier to remain anonymous in Paris.”

“And we know that anonymity was important to him.”

“Yeah, he used to say that when people heard his name, the first thing they wanted from him was money. And then information. And he valued information more than he did money.”

“Okay, good. Good. So – Paris, did he have any permanent residences or did he stay in hotels?” Peter figured the former, but he needed to ask.

Neal laughed. “Vincent had several – a house on the Ile St. Louis, a penthouse apartment near the Eiffel Tower in the seventh arrondissement, and he kept a suite at the Hotel George V. There were other properties, but those were the ones he preferred.”

Cruz asked, “Do we know what happened to them? Were the properties seized when Adler disappeared?”  
Neal frown, clearing in the dark about that. 

Peter loved moments like this, when he could use his team to the fullest of their abilities. “Lauren, since I know you’re fluent in French, you’ve just volunteered to find that out.”

She nodded and began making notes.

Neal kept the helpful information coming, “They weren’t held in his name and there’s probably no paper trail back to Vincent Adler. I do know that the house in the Marias was bought by a special purpose holding company and sold three or four times before being repurchased by another special purpose entity that a company Vincent controlled. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been bought and sold a few more times.”

Clinton joked, “I guess if you’re a billionaire, you’re really not worried about paying the transfer taxes.”

“No, not really. It was all about anonymity, about keeping his name and his primary company’s name off the radar.” Neal sounded bitter. “I never asked him why that mattered so much. He wasn’t like Howard Hughes – he wasn’t a recluse – he just wanted to stay anonymous.”

Peter was about to tell Neal about Claude Ballatin’s activities but cut himself off. Clinton knew a little bit, but Lauren wasn’t cleared. And telling Neal that his former boss was really an international arms smuggler and probably responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent lives wouldn’t serve any purpose, just yet. “Give Lauren all the addresses you can remember. Maybe we can discreetly run the property records with the tax authorities in Paris. See who’s bought and sold them. If we can link any of those places to anything controlled by Ballatin, maybe we can pin the man down.”

Neal, though, didn’t seem to think that was necessary. “Why not just stake out _La Tour d’Argent_?”

Even Peter, who wasn’t au courant on haute cuisine, knew that _La Tour d’Argent_ was one of the most famous and exclusive restaurants in Paris. “I don’t think that the Paris police will supply us with a surveillance van and listening devices. Besides, why do you think we’ll find him there?”

“The picture you showed me – Vincent’s seated alone at the best table in the restaurant. They don’t just put anyone there, and if he’s living under the radar, it means that he’s a valued customer, not a famous name. For that type of treatment, I’d have to figure that he eats there once or twice a week.”

“It’s an idea – a good one, but it’s risky.”

The four of them brainstormed for the rest of the afternoon, into the evening, and in the quieter moments, Peter watched Neal interact with Clinton and Lauren. It was like he was a veteran member of the team and Peter couldn’t help but regret the waste of talent. Once Adler was wrapped up, he was going to do his damnedest to find out what the hell happened to James Caffrey and why Neal had lived with a target on his back for half his life.

It was well after eight by time Peter called a halt to their work. The conference table was littered with notepads and files and folders – Lauren had done a good job of keeping up with transcribing the whiteboard. It was actually one of those smart board things that automatically captured the data, but Peter had disabled that function. Something told him that keeping this information off the FBI’s servers was a good precaution.

The room also smelled unpleasantly of stale Chinese food.

Peter took pity on everyone when Clinton yawned for the fourth or fifth time. “I think it’s time to call it a night, folks.” When Lauren started to gather up the notes, he waved her off. “I’ll take care of this – go home, get a good night’s sleep and be ready to start fresh tomorrow.”

His agents gave him a grateful ‘goodnight’ and left. Neal was standing in the back of the room, hands in his pockets. Caught in the shadows, the expression on his face was unreadable. He shifted and moved into the light. Peter was struck by the sadness he saw there. “You okay? We’ve put you through the ringer today. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for.”

“I’m fine. It’s just …”

Peter waited for him to finish the thought.

Neal gave him a sad smile and continued, “This could have been my life. I could have been like Clinton Jones, like you, like everyone in this office. I would have been very happy doing this – working ungodly hours, eating lousy take-out, being part of something good and meaningful and important.”

Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat. “For what it’s worth, watching you today – I have no doubt that you would have been a stellar agent and I would have been proud to have you on my team.”

Neal dropped his head and looked away, blinking rapidly. They finished cleaning up without another word. Peter took all of the notes and papers – even the crumpled up and discarded ones – with him. Those he’d shred at home. He knew he was being paranoid, but he didn’t want to take any chances that someone paid a cleaner to hand over a trash bag. It had been known to happen.

It was close to nine-thirty before they got home. The conversation during the drive was minimal, Neal was lost in his own thoughts and Peter didn’t seem inclined to chat. When Peter closed the apartment door behind them and set the alarm, he figured Neal was going to say goodnight and head off to his bedroom. Instead, he went to the kitchen and fetched two bottles of beer before taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. 

Peter did the same, going so far as to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. He took the bottle that Neal held out to him and settled on the couch. It all seemed very domestic and normal, like they done this every night for decades.

Neal seemed like he wanted to say something and Peter was patient. In an impatient sort of way.

Finally, the other man spoke. “You know, you’re making this far too complicated.”

That was the last thing Peter was expecting Neal to say. “What do you mean?”

“The operation – catching Adler in Paris.”

“We don’t really have much of a choice. I can’t just walk into a police station and say, ‘go arrest Claude Ballatin, he’s really the American financial fraudster, Vincent Adler.’ You know that – we can’t bring in his French alter-ego at all. We need to arrest the American citizen, and while you’ll be able to identify Adler for us, that’s only going to happen after he’s in custody.”

“That’s what I mean – that’s too complicated. Let me confront him.”

No. No. He was not letting Neal within a dozen yards of Adler, unless they were separated by steel bars. “That’s too dangerous, Neal. You know what he’s capable of.”

“I’ll wear a wire, you’ll be watching. Remember, he’s not a recluse. He goes out, but he just maintains a very low profile. We’ll watch out for him at _La Tour d’Argent_. Believe me, if I show up and sit down at his table – he’s not going to make a public spectacle. It’ll be too visible, call too much attention to him.”

“No, Neal. No. It’s too risky.” Peter felt sick at the thought of putting Neal into the line of fire. “You’re not a trained agent.”

“Keep with the plan and you’ll lose him, Peter. Keep making inquiries with the tax offices, the police, the word’s going to trickle up to him and he’ll run.” 

“And what if he bodyguards intercept you on the way? What if you never actually get within five feet of him? You have to realize that they’re on the lookout for you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Neal shrugged, far too sanguine about the danger he would face for Peter’s state of mind. “We’ve got one shot at this, Peter. You’ve said so yourself. Let me do this.”

He hated the pleading note in Neal’s voice, but he understood the need to make things right. “Let me sleep on this. I won’t deny that your idea has merit and that the more we dig through Adler’s life as Claude Ballatin, the more we risk losing him for good. But I don’t like putting civilians in harm’s way.”

Neal nodded but there was reluctance in that simple gesture. “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say right now.”

“But you’ll continue to make your case in the morning, right?”

That earned him a smile. “I can be relentless, you know.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” Peter smiled, but there was a knot of worry in his stomach. Neal’s idea made too much sense to dismiss it out of hand, as much as he wanted to.

“See you in the morning.” Neal stood, picked up his jacket and went into his bedroom, the door closing quietly behind him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When he woke up the next morning, Neal decided that saying anything more about his suggestion would be counterproductive. Peter was heading this operation and what he said was law.

That didn’t keep Neal from working through all sorts of scenarios on how he’d approach Adler. After so many years of doing his best _not_ to think about Vincent, he now had a legitimate excuse to indulge in all sorts of what-ifs. 

As eager as he now was to bring that son of a bitch to justice, he was also terrified. The last time he had seen Vincent, it had been an ordinary Monday morning almost five years ago. They’d shared their customary coffee and cereal, swapping sections of the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. The ever-changing numbers on the Bloomberg terminal display were reflected in Vincent’s reading glasses and Neal had amused himself by reading the Futures report in the man’s eyes.

Vincent knew what he’d been doing and smiled, before taking the glasses off and leaning in to kiss him. He’d murmured that he’d be leaving for the airport within the hour, and maybe Neal would like to join him in the shower?

Of course he had. 

The sex had been incredible – it always was. Vincent talking dirty as he fucked him against the shower wall. _“Dein Arsch ist so wunderbar eng. Absolut makellos . Es fühlt sich an als ob mein Schwanz von heissem Samt umgeben ist. Ich könnte dich ständig ficken”_ Even the memory of Vincent’s voice as he whispered those filthy, vulgar words in his ear still affected Neal, more than half a decade later.

Vincent had left him limp and satiated and headed to the airport in Teterboro, where he kept his private jet. Two days later, the FBI came to the office, and his life, as he’d known it, had ended. 

Neal kept trying to convince himself that he could face Vincent and not break apart. That he could calmly lure the man into making an incriminating statement. That he could be the man he should have been, and not some pathetic excuse for a human being.

Maybe following the playbook was for the best. Like Peter said, he wasn’t a trained agent; he had no experience in this sort of thing. 

Or maybe he did. Four years in the minimum security prison in Otisville taught him a lot about getting people to give him what he needed without surrendering more than he wanted to. Maybe if he thought of this as just another act of prison commerce, a simple transaction, he’d get through it. If Peter decided to use him.

They were in the office a little before eight and Neal asked if he could take a half-hour and get in touch with Elizabeth. He wouldn’t tell her anything, but he needed to get with her and go through the bills. Peter told him use the conference room, he needed Jones to track down something for him and they wouldn’t pick up where they’d left off for another hour or so.

It would be good to talk with Elizabeth. Even though they’d spent much of Sunday together, it still seemed like it had been a week since they’d talked. And in a way, it was. Except for the brief conversation they’d had on Friday, they really hadn’t had any time alone since Thursday at work. He had so much he wanted to tell her, so much he wanted to talk with her about. Not Adler, of course. He needed to keep her as far away from that mess as he possibly could. But he wanted to talk with her about Peter.

She’d probably smirk and crow and do her version of the happy dance and say ‘I told you so’ over and over. And she’d be right. Peter was pretty damn close to perfect for him. It’s just that with all this other crap, how could he even contemplate anything more than a casual friendship with the man?

El picked up on the first ring. _“Hi, Neal.”_

“Umm, how did you know it was me?”

_“Caller ID says ‘FBI.’ Peter never calls me from a land line.”_

Neal laughed. “Can’t pull any wool over your eyes.”

_“Nope. How are you doing?”_

“Good.” He wanted to say a hell of a lot more than that, but he couldn’t.

_“Seriously? You’re not bullshitting me?”_

“No, El, I’m not. I’m good.”

_“Peter’s treating you okay? He’s not making you do anything you don’t want to? Do you need me to sic Mozzie on him again?”_

“No, Peter’s been fantastic.” Damn, he probably should have picked a different adjective. El was going to jump all over that.

And she did. _“Fantastic? I want details.”_

“Not that kind of fantastic.”

 _“Oh.”_

Neal could hear the pout. “He’s been really patient and …” He really couldn’t tell El about how he’d treated him like he was a real member of his team, not an initially reluctant witness. 

_“And?”_

“And nice. Okay, your ex is a really nice man.”

_“One you could fall for?”_

“Yes, but I’m not having this conversation with you when he’s less than ten feet away, okay?”

_“But you ARE going to have this conversation, with me, right?”_

“Yeah. Eventually.” Neal twirled the phone cord around his finger, feeling like a teenager, talking about his high school crush. “And I’m putting this out there, because you’re never going to let me live it down, but you were right, okay?”

She knew just what he was talking about. _“No, mister, I’m never going to let you live it down. But seriously, are you happy?”_

Neal took a deep breath and realized that yes, at this moment, with all the chaos and the shadows piling up around him, and knowing nothing about how Peter felt about him, he was just that. “Yes, Ellie, I am.”

_“Good, then that’s all that matters.”_

The conversation shifted over to the mundane as she ran through the supplier bills that needed to be paid, the clients who hadn’t paid _their_ bills, a background check on a potential new client; all the things that Neal normally would handle but couldn’t right now. She finally passed him over to Yvonne and they did the bookkeeping entries. Everything tied out nicely and Neal ended the call just as Peter, Clinton and Lauren came into the conference room.

Peter asked, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. As long as I don’t make Elizabeth do any bookkeeping, we’re fine.”

Neal settled down and waited for Peter to get started, but the man seemed reluctant to begin. He paced back and forth, pausing every few steps, looking as if he was about to say something, but then closing his mouth and pacing a few more times. Neal didn’t know what to make of this behavior. Admittedly, his experience with Peter wasn’t very extensive but this indecisiveness seemed uncharacteristic of someone he’d come to think of as a human dynamo.

Finally, Peter worked out whatever was bothering him and spoke. “Neal – are you still willing to do what you suggested last night?”

Now he could understand Peter’s behavior. He sat up straight, feeling Clinton and Lauren’s eyes on him. Both agents looked puzzled, so Peter hadn’t briefed them yet. Not that it mattered. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Are you sure? If we commit to this path, we can’t go back.”

“Yes, Peter. I’m completely certain.”

“Umm, what’s going on?” Lauren finally raised the question.

Peter let out a gusty sigh. “Neal’s agreed to be our stalking horse. Instead of arresting Adler and then having Neal identify him, Neal’s volunteered to confront Adler in public and get him to reveal himself. For the record, I don’t like this, but given the problems we’re facing, it’s really the best approach.”

Peter asked Lauren to make contact with Interpol in Paris, and warned her not to mention Adler’s French alter-ego. They’d need the agency’s help when they went to the police in Paris. Clinton was handed the responsibility for updating the warrants on Adler. Neal, to his dismay, was left with nothing to do.

Peter was adamant. “Your role in this is difficult enough. We need to get the structure of the operation set up first, then we’ll go over how you’ll approach Adler, your code words. You need to follow the script. If you can’t, tell me now and we’ll go back to the original plan.”

Neal clenched his jaw until it ached. 

“Neal? Do you understand?”

“I’m not a fool, Peter. I understand.”

“I’m not sure that you do. I know you want this son of a bitch behind bars as much as the rest of us, but putting him there is not worth your life.”

Neal forced himself to relax. “Adler won’t do anything to me.”

“He already tried to kill you, remember the gas leak?”

“How could I forget, but he won’t do anything in public, I already told you. That’s not his way. It’s too visible, too risky for his precious anonymity. I trust you. You’ll have my back. Nothing will happen to me.”

That seemed to take some of the wind out of Peter’s sails and he turned his attention back to the agents, continuing to dole out assignments. Neal’s head was spinning, just listening to the amount of work involved in getting this operation off the ground. 

It was a little after ten before Peter told them to take a break and Neal headed for the men’s room. He had just finished his business and was washing his hands when Clinton came in. Neal gave him the typical abstracted nod and smile that one gives on encountering a familiar face in an awkward setting.

But Clinton didn’t nod back; in fact, he didn’t head over to the urinals. He stopped at the sinks and gave him a hard, searching look. 

“What’s the matter?”

Clinton just continued to stare at him and Neal was getting unnerved. But he’d learned the hard way not to show fear, so he cocked an eyebrow at the other man and waited.

Finally, Clinton said something. “You’ve already impressed Peter; you don’t have to keep trying so hard.”

“What do you mean?” Neal asked, but he was pretty certain he knew just what Clinton was saying.

“You don’t have to put your life on the line to impress Peter – Agent Burke. He already thinks very highly of you.”

Neal prayed that his face wasn’t turning red, because he could feel embarrassment flooding through him; the sweat pooling under his arms, at the base of his spine. “And I think very highly of Agent Burke, but that has nothing to do with why I’m doing this, Agent Jones.” Neal hoped that using the man’s title would put a damper on his well-intentioned presumption – Clinton had invited him to use his first name when they were introduced Friday morning.

Clinton shook his head. “Peter’s a good man, a good agent. He’s not easily impressed. He’s also not easy to get close to, and you’ve managed to do both very quickly.”

Now Neal was confused. Was he warning him off? Clinton’s words seemed to say one thing, but his tone was one of compassion and understanding. “I’m not following – what does that have to do with anything?”

Clinton shrugged. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. We can get Adler, it may take a little more time, we may need to use a lot more finesse, but we’ll get him and you’ll be a big help. But putting yourself in danger isn’t necessary. You don’t have to prove anything.” 

At that, the man left and Neal was more confused than ever.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

A probie delivered a message for Peter that the files he’d asked for had been sent over. He left Neal, and Lauren asked Clinton to join him in his office.

“Remember our conversation with Alan Davis at the U.S. Attorney’s office last week?”

Clinton nodded. “Of course. What have you got?”

Peter gestured to the carton that had been left on his desk. “I requested the disposition files for every case that Davis’ office prosecuted where Neal’s lawyer represented the defendant. Something keeps bothering me about some of the communications between Davis and that lawyer. Nothing I can put my finger on, but I can’t get rid of the feeling that there was something hinky going on between them.”

“And you think the answer is in those files?”

“Yes. According to the court records, in the two years after Neal’s guilty plea, almost every single one of the defendants that Neal’s attorney represented in Federal cases got exceedingly sweet plea arrangements. Charges reduced or dropped entirely even when there was overwhelming evidence of guilt. None of the cases were high-profile, but the pattern’s pretty clear – at least to me.”

Clinton rocked back on his heels. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take a quick look through the files; see if anything stands out in any of the communications between the lawyer and Davis’ office. I don’t think anyone would be so stupid as to put anything in an email, but you never know. I need to take Neal over to his attorney’s office this afternoon and I’d like to do a little arm-twisting while I’m there. See what shakes out. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll need an index typed up – defendant, original charges, final plea and sentencing.”

“Got it.” Clinton hefted the box of files, turned to leave, but stopped and turned back, an uncomfortable look on his face. “Listen, Peter – I just did something that – well, that might not be, well … ” He grimaced and quickly said, “I told Caffrey that he doesn’t have to impress you, that you were already impressed.”

Peter wasn’t sure he heard right. “Clinton?” And he wasn’t sure what to make of the flush that darkened his skin.

“Look, it’s pretty clear that he’s got a serious case of hero-worship for you – hell, I don’t blame him. There isn’t an agent who’s worked here who hasn’t. But he’s _not_ an agent and I guess I don’t like the idea of a civilian putting himself in the line of fire because he believes you’ll think better of him.” Clinton’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. 

Peter was a little appalled – not so much at the idea that Neal hero-worshipped him – but that it was so obvious that _he_ was just as impressed by Neal. “Um, I really don’t know what to say.”

“That I’m not fired?” 

Humor actually was the best approach. “No, you’re not fired, but you’re going to get me mocha chai lattes for the rest of the month. Grandes, from the good Starbucks, not the one at the corner, but the one on the other side of Columbus Park.”

“Seriously?” Clinton laughed.

“What do you think?” Peter was going to let the man figure that out by himself but he wouldn’t be surprised if that beverage appeared on his desk every morning for the next two weeks. Or at least until he told Clinton that he loathed the stuff. “Get back to work. I’ll need your report on those files by noon.”

Clinton left and Peter all but flopped into his chair. He should have felt more embarrassed than he did. 

Lauren knocked on the door connecting to the conference room and he gestured for her to come in. From the look on her face, this interruption wasn’t good news. “What’s the matter?” 

“A problem – maybe you should come back and let Neal explain.” 

Peter hoped that perhaps Neal had reconsidered his offer. He went into the conference room and Neal was examining a wristwatch-style transmitter. It was a replica Rolex model, the type the FBI used instead of the old fashioned recorders that informants used to wear taped to their bodies. The ‘watches’ were miracles of modern technology, capable of sending audio signals over a narrow encoded radio band, plus several dozen hours of recording capability, plus a highly energy efficient GPS tracker. Each one cost close to fifteen grand, almost as much as a real Rolex.

“What’s the problem?”

“This.” Neal slid the watch across the conference table like it was something he’d picked up from a dealer on the Lower East Side. Peter winced as he caught it.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s an obvious fake.”

“Not that obvious.”

“Not to a watch geek.”

“But you’re not a watch geek. You don’t even wear a watch.” Peter had noticed that over the weekend.

“No, but Adler is. And that I don’t wear a watch is also part of the problem.”

“I don’t follow.” 

Neal huffed a sigh. “Vincent was a serious watch collector. He would see this and know immediately that it wasn’t real.”

Peter frowned. “I’ve been assured by the guys in the tech lab that it’s indistinguishable from a genuine Rolex.”

“I don’t think the guys in your tech lab have ever seen a real Rolex, let alone a Submariner. Someone might mistake this for the real thing if they were standing across the street and had bad eyesight. But to anyone who knows anything about watches, it’s a bad fake.”

“How can you tell?” Peter wanted details.

“For starters, the color of the gold is wrong. It’s too bright, too yellow – the gold on a real Rolex Submariner is more of a champagne color. The case is too thick, and I suspect because it needs to hold all of the electronics. The proportion of the winder and the guards are off and so is the thickness of the bezel. The number of lines on the crown’s coin edge is the wrong ratio to the lines on the bezel. Basically, it’s all wrong.”

He listened to Neal pick the watch apart, detailing flaw after flaw. “You’re kidding me, right? You don’t wear a watch, but you know all of this?”

“Peter, I spent three years working for a man with one serious avocation – horology. Adler was not just a collector and an aficionado, he was an expert. His collection contained some of the rarest and most expensive watches ever made. He had standing appointments with every master horologist in Basel during the annual watch fair. For him, a Rolex like this would be like a common Timex to you. And while it might not be worthy of his collection, he’d know just what it was or wasn’t at a glance.”

Not for the first, or even the third time, Peter felt like there was something else going on, something that Neal wasn’t telling him. But he didn’t push. “Okay, so he’d know it was a fake – but why would that be a problem? Why wouldn’t Adler think that you’re just trying to show off, pretend to be doing better than you actually are? You can get away with a knockoff if everything else you’re wearing is real.”

“It’s like you said, Peter. I don’t wear a wristwatch. And that’s something that Vincent knows quite well…” Neal’s voice trailed off and he got an abstracted look in his eye, like something just occurred to him.

“Neal?” 

“I need to get into my safety deposit box, Peter.”

“Yeah – I know that. You need to get your passport.”

“That’s not it. There’s something else.”

Peter heard the urgency in Neal’s voice. “What’s going on?”

“I just remembered something. It may be important, it may be nothing.”

“Can you tell me or do you need to wait?”

“No, I can tell you but I don’t know if it means anything.” Neal took a deep breath. “The first Christmas I worked for Adler, it was a record-breaking year. Extraordinary returns on the managed funds and I made several very profitable acquisitions for the group. Vincent was very pleased with us and gave all of us watches as part of our bonuses.”

“And?” Peter couldn’t figure out how any of this meant anything.

“He gave me a Patek Philippe tourbillon.” 

Peter looked at Lauren, hoping that would mean something to her. It didn’t. “Okay…”

“Like I said, I don’t wear a wristwatch, but it was a gift and it seemed like a good idea to wear it from time to time. Except that it kept getting in the way and I’d take it off and leave it on my … desk.”

That pause was another clue that Peter filed away. 

Neal continued. “Vincent found the watch and he was a little annoyed. So I told him that I really wasn’t much of a watch guy, but I wore it to show my appreciation for the gift and the giver. But the watch was exquisite and I was constantly afraid I’d scratch it or bang it, so I’d take it off. He seemed okay with that and told me I didn’t have to wear it, but I should keep it in a safe place. It’s a very special watch and more than that, it held a very special secret. And then he laughed and told me he was kidding – at least about the secret. But it was very valuable and I should take better care of it.”

Lauren interrupted. “Is this the watch?” She had her laptop with her and turned it so both he and Neal could see. The piece was a true work of art in blue and gold and silver.

Neal nodded. “That’s close. The case on mine is a little less elaborate. But it’s very similar and it has the two faces.”

Peter had no clue what he meant. “Two faces?”

“One on the front – it has a perpetual calendar, moon phase and a star chart, and the time, of course. The face on the back is for sidereal time and shows the constellations in the Summer Triangle and the passage of the Moon.”

“Sidereal time?” Peter shook his head. “Seriously, does anyone other than an astronomer need sidereal time?”

Neal shrugged and just said, “Like I said, it was a gift.”

Lauren scrolled down and whistled. “Nice gift.”

Peter leaned closer to the monitor and looked at the text under the photograph. He blinked and looked again, just to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. “List price, one point two million.” 

Neal stood there, hands in his pockets. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“About right?” Peter was almost afraid to hear Neal’s clarification.

“When I realized how valuable it was, I had it insured at its replacement value – which was two and a half million in 2007.”

“Talk about nice Christmas bonuses, but I think I’d rather have had the cash,” Lauren commented.

Neal flushed and for the first time since he’d barged into El’s office looking for him, and he spoke with anger. “My performance bonus that year was ten million dollars. This was a present.”

Lauren didn’t say anything, returning her attention to her laptop screen.

Peter was appalled, not at his agent’s faux pas, but at the evidence of just how far Neal Caffrey had fallen. Yes, he’d seen Neal’s financial statements in his case file, but hearing it spoken out loud… one year, he made at least eight figures, another year; he worried about being able to afford to buy underwear at Macy’s.

Neal cleared his throat and murmured, “Sorry about that.”

Lauren replied in kind, “Me too.”

“Okay, this watch – why is it so important?” Peter needed to get this conversation back on track.

“I don’t know.” Neal had a frustrated look on his face. “There’s something there, I know it. There’s something I feel like I’m missing. I need to see it – maybe something will click.”

“That’s your gut talking.”

“And I shouldn’t ignore it?” Neal gave him a small smile. 

“Absolutely not.”

Something occurred to Peter, but it wasn’t something he wanted to say in front of Lauren. In fact, it wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to bring up to Neal at all. A knock on the door saved him from making a decision. It was Clinton, with a file in hand. He nodded, as if he’d found just what Peter had hoped for.

Peter took the file, looked at a few pages and turned back to Neal. “I think it’s high time we paid a visit to your old attorney.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The offices of Drake Marlowe Hennessy LLP hadn’t changed in the half a decade since the last time he’d been here. Neal wasn’t surprised, the firm was as old school, white shoe as you could get. Dark paneling, the firm name in bronze letters above the reception desk, marble floors separated by oriental carpets and a sense of hush, that important work is being done here, permeated the space. Maybe the lighting had been updated, new bits of technology discreetly added, but the ugly gilt framed portraits of Messers Drake, Marlowe and Hennessy, dead esquires all, reigned over everything.

The receptionist, a perfectly coiffed young blonde with equally perfect posture spoke quietly into her headset. Either she was wholly focused on her conversation, or she was deliberately ignoring them. It was probably the latter.

Neal hid a smile as Peter impatiently tapped his fingers against the reception desk. The girl held up a finger, as well manicured as her hair, holding them off. Peter just drummed his fingers that much harder, that much louder.

The receptionist ended her call and slowly looked up at them. Neal smiled, trying to exude as much charm as possible. “I need to see Stanley Volker, I’m a client.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Neal turned up the wattage on his smile, his body falling into almost-forgotten habits. His voice pitched lower, his eyes dropped to half-mast. “No. Tell him that Neal Caffrey’s here.”

“Client or not, Mr. Volker sees no one without an appointment.” 

He kept trying. “Please, just tell him. He’ll see me.” Actually, Neal was pretty certain that Stanley Volker wouldn’t see him, at least not without three weeks’ notice and then he’d probably get fobbed off to some entry level paralegal or first year associate. He’d tried to tell Peter that, but the man wouldn’t listen. And for what Neal required: the key to his safety deposit box at the main branch of Midtown Mutual, all he really needed was a paralegal with his file.

While the blonde was impervious to his charm, apparently she wasn’t impervious to the badge that Peter stuck in her face. “Stanley Volker, now, or I’m going to have a dozen FBI agents down here so fast your head will spin. Agents with warrants. And believe me, you don’t want that.”

Neal didn’t think that threat was all that hollow. Before they left the office, Peter had removed a page from the file that Clinton had given him and tucked it into his jacket. He patted the paper with a grin. Neal had to wonder just what made Peter smile like that, a smile that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

To her credit, the receptionist didn’t get flustered, but her pupils were dilated and bright red flags of color made her face blotchy under her makeup. The telephone console was lighting up, but she ignored the incoming calls and reached for a stand-alone phone, a red one. Peter grabbed her hand. “I said, we need to see Stanley Volker, _now_.” 

The woman swallowed and pressed a button on the console and Neal heard her frantically whispering to someone, presumably Volker’s secretary. “There’s an FBI agent is here and he’s threatening to have agents come in with warrants and tear the place apart unless they see Mr. Volker right away. Neal Caffrey’s with him.” She looked up and caught Neal’s eye, then Peter’s and whatever she saw in Peter’s face must have terrified her. She blanched and turned from them, but Neal could still hear her. “Get down here now!”

Neal wandered over to the painting opposite the reception desk and Peter followed. He really wasn’t at all interested in the mid-Twentieth century corporate portraiture; he just wanted to give the poor girl some breathing room.

Peter was standing next to him, hands on his hips, feet spread, like he owned everything his eye could see. “How long do you think we’ll be kept waiting?”

“Well, if you call Jones and ask him to get those warrants, maybe another five minutes. Or maybe not.” Neal turned around at the sound the high heels striding against the marble floor. “That’s Volker’s secretary.” 

As she approached, Neal thought that the woman had spent the last five years in a time capsule. She hadn’t changed since the last time he’d seen her. She had the same no-nonsense salt and pepper bob, wearing the same classic Chanel suit with a small cat pin at the lapel – the only sign of softness – which was cancelled out by the her abrupt, unfriendly manner. “Mr. Caffrey, what brings you here? Mr. Volker is a busy man. He really doesn’t have time for this.”

“Hello, Caroline, good to see you, too.” Neal had always treated the woman with friendly courtesy, despite her constantly overt hostility. He saw no reason to change now. Of course, his charm had no effect.

“I’m waiting, Mr. Caffrey.” Caroline actually crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot.

Peter was about to step in, but Neal waved him off. “My business is with Stanley, not with you. If he doesn’t have time for me, he’ll have to make time for the FBI.”

Caroline’s eyes flickered from him to Peter, standing sentinel behind him. She licked her lips. “Perhaps, if you tell me what you need, I can send up one of our associates.”

Despite his simple requirement, Neal decided to tear a page out of Peter’s playbook. “No. I said, I need to see Stanley, not you, not a paralegal, not a damn associate. Stanley. Now.”

Caroline hesitated and Peter took matters out of his hands. “Fuck this, Neal, I’m calling Clinton about those warrants after all. If Volker can’t comply with a simple request for a face-to-face meeting, I have to wonder just what he’s hiding.”

Desperate to avoid that disaster, Caroline surrendered. “Okay, all right. Mr. Volker will make time to see you now.” Her lip curled in disgust and Neal had to repress the childish urge to tell the woman to be careful, her face might freeze like that.

They followed her through a maze of hallways and past conference rooms. It seemed to Neal that Peter deliberately let his suit jacket flap open, displaying his shoulder rig and gun. Word must have trickled down from reception that the FBI was in the office, because doors slammed shut as they approached. Finally, at the end of the hallway was another small, very posh seating area in front of a set of glass doors. Caroline punched in a key code and used a swipe card to open them. “Wait here” were the first words she spoke to them since they left the reception area. 

Peter, though, was not inclined to listen. He didn’t quite push past the woman, but still managed to burst into the corner office that Volker now occupied. Neal followed on his heels. 

The man was standing behind his desk, looking ready to burst from outrage. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Neal held up his hand, trying to calm the man down, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “If you hadn’t tried to stonewall us, we wouldn’t have had to do this.”

“Stonewall, what the hell do you mean? You don’t have an appointment and I have every right to refuse to see you.”

“But you don’t have the right to refuse to see me. Peter Burke, FBI.” Peter held up his ID folder. 

“FBI? What does the FBI want with me?” Neal thought it interesting how pale Volker got.

Peter gave the man a shark-like smirk. “We’ll get to that. First, Neal has some business with you.”

Neal privately thought that Peter was making way too much of this, but he remembered that mysterious piece of paper and decided to let that play out. He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You’ve done well for yourself, Stanley.” Neal took petty pleasure in watching the man flush a shade darker; he always hated being called ‘Stanley’. “I saw that you were made senior litigation partner for the firm. You’ve made a big name for yourself, representing the white collar criminal elite.”

Volker sat back down, ill at ease as he fiddled with a pen. “I’ve had a good run. The firm recognizes that.” He tapped the pen against the desk, dropping it as ink leaked all over his hand. “I had heard you were released a while ago. You look like you’re doing well, too.”

Neal took a seat and crossed his legs, casually brushing a piece of non-existent lint from his trousers. “Clothes make the man. It’s all surface, you know that.” Sitting here, Neal remembered what it was like to close the un-closeable deal, to go from weakness to strength in the blink of an eye. He said nothing and practically tasted the other man’s anxiety as he let the silence draw out and his eyes never left Volker’s face. 

This felt almost too good; he was enjoying himself too much.

The man was sweating. Peter hadn’t said a word, stalked around the office like a lion in a cage, fiddling with the knick-knacks, looking at photographs, making a low humming sound in the back of his throat. Like a lion getting ready to roar.

He picked up a small statue and Volker looked like he was ready to jump up and grab it out of Peter’s hands. “What do you want?”

Peter turned around, still holding the statue. “Are you talking to Neal or to me?”

“To both of you, damn it!”

Neal laughed; his amusement real. “You know, for a noted trial attorney, you’re remarkably nervous. Why?”

“Why? You barge your way in here, you bring the FBI and threaten to serve warrants, and of course I’m upset.”

“I didn’t bring Agent Burke with me just to threaten you, we have … hmmm … parallel interests, you might say.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Volker ground out.

He didn’t explain. Nor did Peter.

Neal sat there, content to let Volker sweat. At least until Peter stopped his perusal of the books and bibelots, caught his eye and tapped his watch. Right, time to bring this little drama to a close. “You have something of mine, Stanley.”

Volker blanched, looking even more shaken, if possible. “I do?”

“Of course you do. I left the key to my safety deposit box with you before my sentencing. I want it, now.”

“You mean, all this was because of a goddamned safety deposit box key? You’ve got to be kidding me.” He pounded a button on his desk phone and screamed for Caroline. “Get me Caffrey’s goddamned file – the post-trial one. And I don’t want to hear that it was moved to storage.”

“Yes, Mr. Volker. I’ve already told the clerk to pull Mr. Caffrey’s client file, it should be up in a few minutes.”

Suddenly, Volker seemed a lot less nervous. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his belly and smiling. “I’m sorry for the over-reaction, Neal. It’s been a tough week and there’s a lot going on. You were a good client and I should have made certain that your needs were given priority. Forgive me?”

Neal wanted to burst out laughing, but he was too stunned by Volker’s abrupt change in demeanor. Maybe it was damage control, or maybe his attorney was relieved about something. But his role in this farce was over. 

It was time for Peter to take center stage.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. His promotion to ASAC meant that he spent a lot more time than he liked at his desk, handling paperwork, dealing with the administrivia required to run a large and busy department. On occasion, his agents would graciously let him join in field operations but he was careful not to get in the way or step on anyone’s toes.

This fishing expedition was paying off big time. He wasn’t surprised that Neal’s old attorney fought tooth and nail against seeing Neal. What did surprise him, though, was his shift from righteous anger to expansive bonhomie. What had he been so afraid of? And why wasn’t he afraid now?

Peter sat down next to Neal and pulled out the list that he’d asked Clinton to prepare. He read it through again, occasionally looking up at Volker and giving him a slight smile before turning his attention back to the list. It was all theater. There was nothing damning in it, no smoking gun, but it served its purpose. Volker didn’t lose his temper again, but he was starting to sweat. He’d taken out a handkerchief and was trying to remove the ink stains from his fingers. They were red. How appropriate.

“You know, Stanley… ”

The man looked up from his scrubbing, much like a deer caught in the headlights. “What?”

“The FBI finds your track-record very interesting.”

“My track record? What do you mean?”

“Your win-loss ratio over the last five years. Or should I say your plea agreement record.”

“My clients are generally satisfied.”

“Most of them, I suspect. But perhaps, not all.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Volker’s nerves were showing again.

“Well, take Mr. Caffrey, here, for instance.”

Volker blinked and then smiled at Neal. “I’m sure Neal was very satisfied with my representation. Weren’t you?”

Neal started to say something, but Peter gave him a minute shake of his head. “I’m not so sure about that. You encouraged him to take a plea, to surrender almost all of his assets, to give up four years of his life when the Government’s case was made of fairy dust and unicorn’s tears.”

Volker did a very good impression of a guppy. “I sure that’s not true.”

Peter was disgusted. Stanley Volker was the worst of his breed. “Actually, it is very true. You had a slam-dunk on an acquittal. I’ve seen the evidence files from the U.S. Attorney’s office. They had no proof of Neal’s involvement in any of the fraud in any of Vincent Adler’s hedge funds. You never even filed a motion to compel production, or interrogatories, or anything diligent legal representation requires. There’s so little communication between your office and the AUSA that it screams ineffective assistance of counsel.” Peter waited for just a moment. “Or so I’ve been told by attorneys who’ve looked at the file, too.”

Peter continued to enjoy himself, dropping bombshell after bombshell. He waved the report from Clinton. “And what’s really interesting is that for the last five years, every case you’ve defended in Federal Court has gone just the opposite way. In cases where the Government’s evidence was overwhelming, you managed to secure plea deals with little or no jail time, no asset forfeiture, not even any quid pro quo – none of your clients were cashing in information they had, testifying against their bosses, even though they were pretty high up on the food chain. I have to wonder how you went from total incompetence with your handling of Neal Caffrey’s case to becoming super lawyer for everyone else.” Peter tossed the paper on Volker’s desk. “It’s all there, in black and white.”

Volker licked his lips, no longer so self-satisfied. “What do you want?”

Peter looked over at Neal, who was white around the lips, his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes blazing with anger. Neal wisely didn’t say a word.

But Stanley Volker proved himself to be as stupid as he was venal. “How about I refund your fees, Neal? I can do that, you know. I’m on the executive committee here, and I can get a check cut today. Within an hour. What do you say?”

Neal still kept his silence and Volker took that as assent. “Good, good. Your final bill should be in the file that Caroline’s bringing you. I’ll just …” There was a sharp knock on the door, interrupting Volker’s babble. “Ah, that must be Caroline. Look, would you like some coffee? Something stronger? I have a bottle of Glen Garioch that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.” Volker went to the door, took the file that his secretary brought and turned back to them.

“Here – your summary bill is right here.” He opened the file and turned bright red before doing that guppy imitation again.

Peter asked, his tone angelic, “Everything all right?” He suspected that the firm had billed Neal an exorbitant amount for services that weren’t actually provided, and refunding that money wouldn’t be easy or comfortable.

“Yes, yes – fine. Um, this refund…” 

Finally, Neal spoke. “Having second thoughts about that offer?” Peter loved how he stared at Volker, just one eyebrow raised.

“No – not at all. I’ll just have this check cut. And you’ll …”

Neal asked with a deliberate lack of concern, “I’ll what?”

“You’ll take this no further.”

Neal looked over at Peter, and he gave him a slight nod. “I’m not sure what you mean by that. Explain.”

“You really want me to spell it out for you?”

Neal said, “Yes, I do.”

“Okay – I refund your fee and maybe some interest and you don’t file a complaint with the Bar or go to the U.S. Attorney about this. You get your money back and we’re fair and square. I’ll have your records shredded and you’ll forget you were a client. The past is over and done, we can’t change it, right? Do we understand each other?”

Peter couldn’t believe the man was really that stupid.

“I need my key before you shred anything.” Neal held out his hand and Peter had to admire his icy poise.

Volker ripped something out of the folder – a small manila envelope – and handed it to Neal.

“Is that it?” Peter looked at what Neal took out of that envelope. It was another, smaller envelope, sealed and stamped. Neal opened that and a large flat bank vault key dropped into his hand. 

“I think I have everything I need. You?”

Peter grinned. Working with Neal was really such an unexpected pleasure. “Yeah, we’re done here.”

“Wait, wait – what about …” Volker tried to stop them. Which was really too ironic.

“Your bribe?” Peter finished for him.

“What! I didn’t offer anyone bribe!” Volker practically shrieked. He was playing the outrage card, now.

“Actually, you did. You offered Neal a payment to keep him from filing an official complaint. You said you would destroy evidence in exchange for Neal accepting that payment. You did so in the presence of a Federal official. That, Mr. Volker, is a bribe.”

Peter got up and motioned for Neal to join him. “It’s fortunate for you that Neal and I need to be somewhere else right now. I’ll be back, though – with warrants. I don’t suggest you destroy a single piece of paper in Neal’s files. Evidence tampering is a serious crime. Just as serious as bribery.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They made it down to the street before Neal burst out laughing. “I can’t believe Stan was really that stupid.” He had to lean against the building to catch his breath.

“Yeah, I was kind of surprised, myself. I had hoped he’d tip his hand about colluding with the AUSA on your case, but I didn’t expect him to offer you a bribe right in front of me. If he’d stopped with just refunding your fee, he would have been fine, but making it contingent on your silence crossed the line. That was pretty damn stupid. ”

Neal stopped laughing. “And so was I, apparently. How did I not realize what was going on?”

“Because you did what you were supposed to do, you trusted your attorney.” Peter rested a hand on his shoulder and then tugged at him. “Come on, we need to get to the bank. It’s close to three and I don’t want to have to wait until tomorrow.”

Neal took a deep breath, putting his aggravation and disillusionment aside. He’d deal with what happened later. “Okay. My safety deposit box is at the main branch. It’s not that far from here.” 

As they walked, Neal asked, “Would you really have had your team come with search warrants?”

“Nope. Need probable cause for a warrant, and the bar is high – pardon the pun – with law firms. Judges tend to be cautious when you have attorney-client privilege and all that. The receptionist shouldn’t have panicked, but I’ll chalk that up to her inexperience. I’m surprised, though, that Volker’s secretary didn’t stand her ground. With all her years of experience, she should have known that I just couldn’t get a warrant like that.”

“Unless she knows that there’s something dirty going on and figured that you were there because of that.” Neal turned the corner onto Park Avenue, trying to remember which direction he had to go to get to the bank

“That makes sense.” Peter turned right. “This way – it’s at the corner of Fifty-Second.”

They arrived at the bank about five minutes before closing and the manager wasn’t all that happy to accommodate them. He told them, “Access to the safety deposit boxes ends a half-hour before end of business.” 

Peter asked, “Is the vault on a time lock?”

“No, but – ”

“Then we need access now.” Peter held up his badge and Neal held up his key.

The man gave them an aggravated sigh and took them through the sign-in process, carefully checking Neal’s signature against the one on file. They followed the manager into the vault area. The vault door was opened, but access to the room was through a set of bars that the manager opened with a code and keycard. Neal had a moment of déjà vu so strong that he gripped the bars and had to force himself to walk through them. 

Peter looked at him with concern. “You all right?”

Neal swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Let’s make this quick.” 

The manager used his master key and gestured for Neal to put his in the lock. The small door opened and Neal pulled out the box. It was heavier than he remembered.

“You can use this room, gentlemen.” The manager pointed them to a small, private space, little bigger than a coat closet. “Ring the bell when you’re done. And if possible, can you be quick about it? The branch closes in ten minutes.”

Neal set the box on the table and Peter closed the door behind them. He was curious about the contents. “It’s funny – I can remember getting this box, paying the bank for ten years in advance, giving the key to Stan, but I don’t remember what’s in here.”

“I’m guessing that the last few weeks before your sentencing were pretty chaotic.”

“Yeah. Liquidating everything, constantly signing papers, making sure my mother was taken care of.” He opened the box, shocked by the disorder and hit with the vague memory of just shoving things into it, anxious to get it over and done with. “I probably should go through everything, but we don’t have time.” He chuckled at the unintentional irony.

“I have to ask – is there anything from your work with Adler in there?”

Neal pulled out some papers, the originals of his college transcripts, a title to a car he no longer owned, his birth certificate, which he put to one side. “No. I’d turned all my papers over to Stan. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Just asking.”

Neal found his passport, which still had a few years left before expiring. He reached deep into the back of the box and his fingers brushed against leather, not metal – the box with the watch. He couldn’t wrap his hand around it and it was jammed deep. He grunted in frustration.

“Here, let me.” Peter turned the safety deposit box and opened the catch on the opposite side. “There – no need to struggle.”

The papers jammed into the box spilled out when Peter opened the other lid, revealing the Patek Philippe box.

“Neal, I have to ask – why did you keep this?” Peter picked up the box. 

Neal felt himself flushing. “What do you mean?” He knew exactly what Peter meant, but he wanted to buy himself some time before answering.

“I thought you turned over everything – ”

He cut Peter off. “This was a personal gift. I didn’t _have_ to turn it over.” He hoped he sounded cool, but in his head, it seemed like he was whining.

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve been living pretty much hand to mouth since you got out of prison. You could have sold the watch and lived pretty well.”

Even though there was no judgment or censure in Peter’s tone, Neal flushed again. “I forgot about it – really. I just forgot I had it. I shoved it in here and forgot about it until today, okay?” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that.

He handed Peter the box and put his passport in his breast pocket. His birth certificate, which he thought he’d need if his passport had expired, went back into the box, along with the rest of the papers. Someday when he had the time, he was going to come back and sort through everything.

The manager was waiting for them and made quick work of putting the box back. Neal made sure he had the key and double-checked that Peter was holding the watch. He thanked the bank manager, who escorted them to the front door.

Back at the office, back in the conference room, Peter handed him the watch box. “Here, let’s see if we can figure out what’s triggering your gut.” 

Neal took a deep breath and as he opened the box. He thought that he should have checked it before leaving the bank – maybe someone had gotten into his box and took the damn thing. But no, it was there, in pristine condition. He might have worn it three times before Vincent found it on the dining room table, next to his laptop where he’d left it overnight.

He had told Peter that Vincent had been upset at seeing the watch left so carelessly lying around, but that really wasn’t the whole truth. The man’s anger had been almost frightening in its intensity. 

Vincent hadn’t shouted out him, hadn’t threatened him, but Neal could see the rage in his eyes. He had said to him in a quiet and deadly voice, “Everybody gets one big mistake in life and one opportunity to fix it. ”

At that moment, Neal wasn’t so sure why leaving the watch out was such a big deal, but he didn’t like the idea of Vincent being angry with him. He’d babbled about not wearing watches, and he promised to take better care of it.

And like that, Vincent seemed to have forgiven him. He laughed at Neal’s gauche apology and made that joke about the watch holding a great secret. “Just take care of it, Neal. Like you are to me, its value is incalculable.”

Neal remembered being overwhelmed by the compliment. At the earliest opportunity; he’d done some basic research on the watch. The information had stunned him. He had figured that the watch was pricey given Vincent’s reaction, and the man was known – at least within his inner circle – for his generosity. Neal had been appalled at himself. He’d left a million dollar watch out. He’d _worn_ a million dollar watch like it was a graduation present from some vaguely fond relative. 

After that, Neal had kept the watch in his own apartment, in a wall safe, taking it out almost every night he spent alone and practically mooning over it. He’d remember Vincent’s words about it holding a great secret; he’d remember the feeling of this being a love gift. He’d feel happy and important and that nothing in his past ever mattered because his future was endless and perfect.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter had left Neal in the conference room and called in Clinton to discuss what had happened at Stanley Volker’s office. Clinton said he’d get in touch with OPR, since this involved corruption within the U.S. Attorney’s office. The debriefing hadn’t taken long, a half-hour or so, and he was anxious to get back to Neal, to see what he found. “Anything?”

Neal looked up and grimaced. “I think maybe. Can we go into your office? The desk lamp there would help.”

“I have a magnifying glass, if that would help, too.”

“Maybe.” 

They relocated back to his office and Peter’ gestured for Neal to sit in his chair. He looked on as Neal stared at the watch, examining the front face, the back, then the front again. He didn’t ask again, but retrieved an old fashioned magnifying glass from the bookcase. It had been a gift from El too many years ago.

“Here.” He handed it to Neal and waited.

Neal kept looking and Peter kept waiting. It was nerve-wracking but his patience paid off when Neal lifted his head and smiled. “I think I’ve got something. Come, look.” He held the magnifying glass over the front watch face. “Look at the date numbers. Do you see anything?”

Peter wasn’t sure. “There’s something there – under some of the numbers, right? Is that what you’re seeing?”

“Yeah – there’s a tiny gold dot, and on two of the numbers, I see two dots.”

“Read them to me.”

“Let me see – one, three, five – and the five has two dots, nine, twelve, thirteen. No, not thirteen. Fourteen, and that one has two dots, too. Eighteen, twenty and twenty-five.” Neal looked at him. “A code?”

“Seems like it.”

Neal asked, “Do you have a cryptography lab or something?”

“Yeah, we do have that, but I wonder if we’ll need it. This can’t be too complicated. I’m thinking that it’s something that he’d want you to figure out? Maybe it’s a substitution cipher?”

Neal said quietly, “I don’t know if it was something he wanted me to figure out, Peter.”

That odd note in Neal’s voice was back. “Then why give you a million dollar watch with a hidden code?”

“I don’t know. But the reasons for the gift really aren’t important. We have the watch, we’ve got a code, and now we have to break it. And you really don’t think you need to send this to a cryptography lab?”

“If I have to, I’d have to send the whole watch and they’ll probably want to take it apart and then you’ll be left with little more than a worthless pile of gears. Let’s see if we can solve this puzzle ourselves.”

“All right.” Neal seemed skeptical and his agreement lacked enthusiasm.

“You’re looking at a five-time New York State cryptogram champion. I love puzzles.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Neal laughed. “Okay, Agent Burke – how would you do this?”

“Well, if it is a simple number-to-letter substitution, let’s start with those two numbers with the two dots. Maybe they mark letters that occur twice. The most common letters of the alphabet are E, A, T, O and N. I’ll bet that the two dots under the 5 mean it’s ‘E’ and the two dots under the 14 mean it’s ‘N’.”

“Of course you know the numerical equivalents for each letter of the alphabet off hand,” Neal commented with a laugh.

Peter ignored him and continued, “We go from there and we’ve got A, C, E, E, I, L, N, N, R, T and Y.” Peter scribbled out the letters onto a legal pad. 

“Now we make a word out of that?”

“Or several words. I wonder if there’s anything to tell us how many there are. Look at the watch again.”

Neal did, this time looking at the back face with the ring dial around the Summer Triangle constellation. “There’s another tiny dot, this time under the 2.”

“Good, good – so two words. That makes it easier.”

Peter stared at the pad, and then stared at Neal, his face glowing in the lamplight. He really couldn’t help himself. The man was too damn beautiful for words, for his sanity.

“So? Anything?” Neal looked up at him and Peter all but drowned in that blue gaze.

“Ah, hmm.” Peter picked up the pad and went over to the white board, better to give himself some distance. A little breathing room. 

He wrote out all the letters and started playing with them. “Well, here’s one that might fit, if it was three words, not two.” Peter chuckled at the result.

“ _‘Nice Try Neal’_?” Neal laughed, too. “Vincent didn’t have that kind of a sense of humor.”

They kept at it – it was easy enough to get one word: ‘trial’ and ‘train’ and ‘realty’ were all obvious, but nothing worked well with the leftover letters. 

Peter all but growled in frustration, scrubbing at his face. “Maybe we should send this down to the crypto lab after all.”

Neal just said, “Ancient lyre.”

“What?” 

“It spells ‘ancient lyre’. And you know something? That makes sense. On the sidereal face, the star map is the Summer Triangle and the brightest star is Vega – ”

“In the constellation Lyra – the Lyre.” Peter laughed and shook his head. “Damn, we’re really good at this.”

Neal’s smile was bright, but a touch sad, too. “Yeah, we are.”

“But what does it mean? ‘Ancient lyre’ has to signify something.” Peter looked at Neal, who shook his head. 

“I don’t know. Vincent wasn’t an astronomy buff and he wasn’t particularly interested in music. He loved his watches and he loved making money.”

“Well, I guess watch collecting is an expensive hobby.” That seemed lame to his ears. “It has to mean _something_. He puts this code into an expensive watch – what did you call it? A tourbillon? Is there any significance in that?”

Neal blinked. “Maybe. Maybe. Vincent had a dozen different hedge funds. There were the big public ones, the employee fund, and a few private ones for his personal investments. When I first started working for him, right after I found out about his obsession with watches, I commented that he should name one of his funds ‘The Tourbillon,’ because no matter what direction the market was going, his funds kept making money like clockwork.”

“I don’t get it.”

“A tourbillon is – ” Neal frowned as he struggled for an explanation. “It’s part of a watch movement – it’s supposed to counteract the force of gravity on the movement itself. I don’t really know how it works exactly, but it’s supposed to be the _ne plus ultra_ of watchmaking, and it’s only found on the most expensive and most exclusive pieces.”

“So, maybe those numbers – in the order of ‘ancient lyre’ are for a numbered account?”

“Could be? Or we could be barking up the wrong tree completely. I don’t know.” Neal slumped back in the chair and raked his fingers through his hair. He looked exhausted – as exhausted as Peter felt.

“I think it’s time we called it a day. Let’s go home, have dinner, turn on the ball game and not think about watches or attorneys or codes or anything else until tomorrow.”

Neal smiled. “Sounds good. Can you lock this up or should we take it home?” He held out the watch.

Peter ignored the “we” and “home” in that sentence, just as he’d ignored those words when he’d spoken, and focused on the timepiece. “Good idea. Get the box – don’t want this scratched.” Peter opened the small lockbox in his desk drawer. It was solid, meant to withstand all but the most determined thief. Neal returned and handed him the box. Peter put the watch back in it, and he tucked it into the back of the safe. He locked the safe, the drawer and when they left the office, the door. 

Neal watched and commented, “As Moz might say, ‘Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you’.”

Peter laughed in agreement. “No truer words were spoken.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This was beginning to feel too much like a routine, going from the office to the car with Peter carefully watching the shadows, dodging traffic to the northbound West Side Highway, Peter’s doing his best imitation of a Formula 1 driver as he cut across three lanes of traffic to get to the exit. His vigilance on the way into the apartment, which wasn’t relaxed until the door was locked and bolted behind them.

It was a routine that Neal enjoyed too much. No, not the near-paranoia that someone would try to kill him, but the going home to someplace that mattered, with someone who mattered.

He went into his bedroom and got out of his suit. As much as he liked the finer things in life – because a Devore, even pre-owned – was definitely among the finer things, he loved being comfortable, too. After four years of orange prison jumpsuits, a simple pair of chinos and a pullover sweater were luxuries he’d never be able to take for granted.

Peter was still in his bedroom when Neal came out, and he had a vague idea to make dinner for the two of them. Peter Burke was a modern bachelor – he didn’t bother shopping for food. He simply had a regular delivery order from PeaPod every Saturday morning. There was fresh chicken and vegetables and as long as Peter had some basic spices, Neal was going to make a quick stir fry. A quick look through the cabinets confirmed that someone – probably Elizabeth – kept him stocked with the essentials.

He spent a few happy minutes peeling and chopping and indulging himself in a wonderful, terrible domestic fantasy. He’d never done anything this plebeian for Vincent. The man would have looked at him like he was crazy, or worse. And it would have been unlikely that the Cordon Bleu-trained chef who had prepared all of Vincent’s meals would have even let him step into the kitchen, let alone cook there.

Neal stopped cutting and wondered just what had happened to the domestics that worked for Vincent. There was a maid, a butler-cum-valet, a cook and a chauffeur. 

“What are you doing?”

It was a good thing that Neal had put down the knife; because Peter’s abrupt appearance in his own kitchen startled him. “Vincent had servants at his house in New York. What happened to them?”

Peter didn’t miss a beat. “And why didn’t we look for them before coming to look for you?”

“Yeah.”

“The answer’s simple. Adler’s domestics disappeared right around the time he did. The house was stripped clean when the FBI came looking for him. According to the files, we first thought that they took everything because they could, but later it seemed likely that they knew that Adler was going to bolt and they were working on his instructions. We never found them.”

Neal remembered the butler, a hyper-efficient Austrian who never smiled and always knew what to do and when to do it. Vincent had often said he wouldn’t be the man he was without Dieter's assistance. “When we find Adler, I’ll be we find his staff. They were extremely loyal.”

“So were his vice presidents and his secretary, and look what happened to them.”

“Ah, yeah. That’s true.” Neal sighed and looked at the pile of cut up vegetables, his appetite gone. He finally answered Peter’s original question. “I thought I’d make dinner for us.”

“Getting a little tired of take out?”

“Yeah, more than you know.”

“You don’t have to cook; I can make something for us.”

“Pot roast? I don’t think so.”

“How do you know about that? Wait, don’t answer. El told you.”

“Yeah, she was singing your praises and that included your apparently excellent pot roast.”

“Why do I think you’re being sarcastic? El hated my pot roast.”

Neal shrugged and suddenly, inexplicably, his good mood was restore. “She did, but she was careful to tell me that it wasn’t _your_ pot roast that she hated, it was all pot roasts.”

Peter didn’t look convinced. “Still – I can do this.”

“I’m sure you can, but being the living embodiment of Captain America is probably quite tiring, so let me handle this, okay?” Neal tried not to feel like he was sounding all wifely and fussy.

Peter just smiled, took a beer out of the fridge and headed into the living room. The sounds of the evening news filtered into the kitchen and Neal let himself fall back into that terrible fantasy. He found a skillet and while searching for the cooking oil, he discovered a not-so-old package of microwave rice. He sautéed and hummed and stopped worrying about everything beyond the confines of the apartment.

Just before everything finished, Peter came back into the kitchen, grabbed plates and cutlery and asked him if he wanted wine or beer. 

“Actually, I think I’m going to stick to water tonight.”

“Good idea. I will, too. I think we’re both a little wrung out.”

The stir fry wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great. In Neal’s mind, it was only marginally better than takeout, if just for the virtue that it was hot. The spices he’d used were so old that they had no flavor. But Peter seemed to enjoy it enough to go back for seconds.

“Sit – you cooked, I clean up. That’s the way things work here at Casa Burke, got it?”

Neal didn’t have the will to even try to protest. He headed into the living room, as always distracted by the view.

“It’s been a long day.” Peter was standing next to him, and it was all Neal could do not to lean into the man, to enjoy the warmth and strength.

“A good one, though,” Neal replied.

“I’ll have to agree.”

“You really enjoyed yourself.”

“I did. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to frighten some lawyers.”

“Not just with Volker, I mean the whole thing. Planning the operation and working with your team. Hell, working with me and figuring out the code in the watch.”

Peter left the window and headed over to the couch, stretching like a big cat. “I don’t get to do this too often anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Neal didn’t understand. “You’re an FBI agent.”

“I’m mostly an administrator these days. I run the division and that means mostly paperwork and politics. My time as a field agent is pretty limited. When D.C. handed us the Adler case, they specifically asked me to take the lead on it. Otherwise, Clinton would have been the case agent. And honestly, I jumped at the chance. I miss the field.”

Neal could hear the absolute truth in that simple statement. “If you love fieldwork, why did you take the promotion?”

“Because.” Peter shrugged. “It’s hard to turn down an opportunity. It’s even harder knowing that I’d be the first gay agent to rise to that rank.” 

Neal was surprised. “I didn’t realize you were out at work.”

“I told you I didn’t need a beard. I’m not in the closet.”

He sat down next to Peter. “There’s a difference between not being in the closet and being out to your co-workers.” When he worked on Wall Street, he hadn’t been in the closet, per se, but he hadn’t been out, either. 

“True. It’s been a very long time since I hid who I was, even when it would have been a lot easier.”

Neal found himself with a dozen questions he wanted to ask, because this could have been his life. “Were you out when you were at the Academy?”

“No – not as far back as then. But I was lucky; my first posting was here in New York. I had graduated at the top of my class and was given my choice of assignments. I figured New York would be easier than Washington. More of a meritocracy here than in D.C. But I did wait until my probationary period was over before saying anything.”

“Can I ask, how did you come out?” Neal had a feeling it was an interesting story. 

Peter shrugged. “One of the other agents asked me if I was seeing anyone. He wanted to fix me up with his sister who needed a date for some family wedding. I told him that I’d just broken up with my boyfriend and wouldn’t mind escorting her. He looked at me for a second and laughed. He actually said that it would be perfect, this way he wouldn’t have to worry about me putting the moves on his precious baby sister.”

“And that was that?”

“Pretty much. I took some ribbing, there were a few agents who didn’t like working with a fag, but my boss was pretty damn adamant that there would be ‘none of that homophobic shit’ under his watch.”

“The ‘don’t ask/don’t care’ thing?”

“Yup. It could have been really bad, but it wasn’t. I know just how fortunate I was.”

“I guess you had your parents’ support, right?”

Peter gave him an odd look. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re pretty well-adjusted. Probably one of the most angst-free gay men I’ve ever met. You seem like you’ve never had to deal with crap about your orientation.”

“Like being called ‘queer’ and ‘faggot’ by your mother?” Peter spoke with bitterness. “She used to say thank God my father hadn’t lived long enough to realize his only child was a moral deviant.”

Neal felt like shit. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I guess I should be flattered that I seem so well-adjusted.”

“It’s more than that, really. You are so centered and grounded, like you’ve never had a moment’s doubt about yourself, about who you are, and why you are like you are. You walk through the world like you own it and you don’t give a shit about what other people think.”

Peter looked startled and pleased. “I suppose that’s true, at least about not caring about what other people think. I just am who I am. My dad died suddenly when I was twelve and my mother never really recovered.”

Neal wanted to say that he knew just how that felt. 

Peter went on, “She was never happy and by time I was in high school, I realized that there was nothing I could do that would please her, so I stopped trying. I loved her, but I wasn’t going to let her rule my life. I knew what I wanted from my life and I didn’t give a damn about what people thought of me. It hasn’t been easy, and there were times when I really thought about just staying in the closet and pretending. But I didn’t and I don’t regret a single thing.”

Neal wished he could say the same.

Peter, of course had to turn the tables on him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Were you out?”

Neal shook his head. “No, I pretty much spent my twenties in denial. I’d date girls and feel like my life was one big, hollow lie. Wall Street in the early oughts wasn’t as bad as it had been, but if you wanted to play with the big boys, you had to act like a big boy. I didn’t have your courage or your sense of self. It was just easier to pretend. When I was at the brokerage, we’d work our asses off, and then hit the clubs on Friday – and I don’t mean the gay dance clubs in Chelsea – but the strip clubs and pick up bars on the West Side. It was all about appearances. About scoring.”

Peter just nodded.

“I’d go out with models and actresses. They liked what they saw, and the money I had didn’t hurt either, but I can’t tell you how many times I’d roll out of some girl’s bed and go cruising for a quick fuck. I hated it, though.”

“You hate being gay?”

“No – I hated the lies. I hated being on the down-low, I hated the anonymous fucking. I wanted something real, someone to come home to, to be with, to share my life with.”

“You’ve never had a serious relationship with a guy?” Peter seemed stunned.

Neal didn’t want to answer that, but he didn’t want to lie, either. So found the middle ground and told Peter as much of the truth as he dared. “No, I did. After I started working for Adler, there was … someone. Neither of us was out of the closet, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t seem to matter.”

There must have been something in his voice, something that gave away his feelings, because Peter asked, “You loved him?”

“At the time, I thought I did. I’m not so sure now.” Neal hated the compassion and sympathy he saw in Peter’s eyes. “But it’s been over for a long time and it doesn’t really matter.”

“What happened?”

Neal just gave Peter a look, not wanting to say more than he already had.

“Ah, it didn’t survive your prison sentence.”

He wasn’t going to tell Peter that it hadn’t survived his arrest and indictment. Vincent had disappeared from the face of the earth right before the FBI put the cuffs on him. 

“What about you? Were you ever in a serious relationship?” Turnabout was fair play.

Peter just smiled. “There were times when I was with someone and it could have gotten serious. But I’m not the easiest guy to get along with.”

It was Neal’s turn to be surprised. “You could have fooled me. You seem pretty easy going.”

“You don’t know me all that well. I work very long hours, I come home and I want a simple, quiet meal, watch a ball game, get some work done. I like my routine; I like things done a certain way. I can be a real fussbudget. I’m surprised El didn’t tell you about that.”

“She was trying to get me to go out with you, not scare me off. And so far, you haven’t said anything that _would_ scare me off.” Neal tried not to blush, because that really did sound like a come on. 

Peter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he ignored it. “Anyway, there were a few times that could have been ‘the real thing’ as they say. But it didn’t work out – didn’t survive my foibles and demands.”

“And I guess that being married kind of put a crimp in your social life.”

Peter laughed with real amusement. “Actually, dating when I was married was a lot easier in a way. El and I would go out together and she’d pick out guys for me. I wasn’t particularly good at reciprocating, though.”

“Picking out girls for Elizabeth?” That kind of shocked Neal – she’d never said anything about being bisexual.

“No, no – I mean, picking out guys for El, setting her up.”

“Oh. Yeah, I could see how that would be awkward. It’s not like you could go up to a straight guy and say, ‘I know this really nice woman and maybe you’d like to date her. And by the way, she’s my wife.’”

“Exactly. And even if I didn’t tell him that El and I were married, it did come up eventually. Particularly if El didn’t like the guy or want to see him again.”

Neal could just imagine the scene, some moron putting the moves on Elizabeth, and she just dropping that tidbit into the conversation. Would pretty much guarantee no second date. 

He leaned back against the couch, enjoying the companionship. Despite his feelings for Peter, despite how they met and what Peter needed from him, he couldn’t help but think of Peter Burke as a friend. And for the first time in his life, he had a friend who knew what his life had been like, how difficult things could be, how hard it was to fit all the pieces into place and make everything work.

And then, without thinking, he turned his head, met Peter’s gaze, and asked a question that could wreck everything. “Have you ever been in love?”

Peter blinked and Neal thought he wasn’t going to answer. Except he did, with a slight, sad smile. “Yeah, once.”

“It didn’t work out?” Neal’s mouth was dry, he really didn’t want to know the answer.

Peter just lifted his shoulders and let them fall. That shrug told Neal everything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s okay, really.” Peter got up and went back over to the window. 

It had started to rain, the droplets beaded against the glass. The silence stretched painfully and all the half-truths and evasions he’d told over the past few days felt like scabs that needed to be picked away. 

“The man I was with – the one I thought I loved – ” It was hard, maybe the hardest thing he’d done since he’d pled guilty to crimes he didn’t commit, but he was going to say the words. “Was Vincent Adler.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Vincent Adler_

Peter felt a little sick at his blindness. For the better part of a week, Neal had been dropping bits and pieces, clues in everything he said and didn’t say, in the inadvertent pauses and moments when he wouldn’t meet his eyes. He should have put it all together, and maybe if he’d had the time, if he’d really thought about it, he would have. But should haves and maybes and would haves didn’t matter. 

“I’m sorry.” Neal got off the couch and retreated to the other side of the room – to the front door. 

Peter had a million questions but he couldn’t seem to ask a single one of them. 

“I’ll go if you want me to.”

That, at least, was something he could respond to. “What? Why? Why would I want you to go?” Neal leaving was the last thing he wanted.

Neal looked wrecked, as bad as he had when they’d first met. “Because – ” The man couldn’t seem to get the rest of that sentence out.

Peter finished for him. “Because you and Adler were lovers?”

“Aren’t you disgusted? Don’t I revolt you?”

Peter wasn’t sure he understood Neal’s self-loathing. “Why would I be?”

“I was in bed – literally – with a criminal – a murderer, it turns out. I thought I loved him, I thought he loved me. Even after he disappeared, I still thought he loved me. I thought I was protecting him.” Neal stood at the door, fists clenched, looking like he was about to shatter. “All I’d ever wanted was to be loved by an equal, to be treated as an equal. I was a fool to think that Adler ever saw me as anything more than a trophy, a sexual convenience who knew how to keep a secret. I wasn’t an equal, I was a joke.”

Peter walked across the room, hands held down and out, as if he was about to talk down a jumper or a gunman. “You did nothing wrong.” Neal’s intimate relationship with Adler was going to make his direct involvement with Adler’s apprehension difficult, if not impossible, but Peter needed to make Neal understand that his relationship with Adler wasn’t wrong or bad or illegal. 

Neal whispered, “How can you say that? I _lied_ to you.” He said that word as if it was truly a mortal sin. 

“You didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell me the whole story. Until now.” Neal needed comfort, not accusations. 

“You’re good at splitting hairs, Agent Burke. A lie of omission is still a lie.”

He stood in front of Neal, hating the anguish in the other man’s eyes. “When we first met, I wanted something from you and you didn’t have any reason to trust me. I don’t blame you for not telling me what had happened between you and Adler.”

“Then. What about now? We’ve become – ” Neal laughed, but it sounded more like a sob, “friends. Friends don’t lie, they don’t keep secrets.”

Peter reached out and put a hand on Neal’s shoulder, just resting it there. “You haven’t had a lot of friends, have you?”

“What do you mean by that?” At least Neal sounded curious, not angry or filled with self-loathing.

“Friends – especially new friends – keep secrets from each other all the time.” He put a little pressure into his hold, pulling Neal away from the door. 

Neal resisted a little.

“Come on, you’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s your job to protect me, right? To make sure I’m safe?” 

Neal was getting prickly, but Peter didn’t care. He realized something that was a hell of a lot more important than Neal’s history with Adler. Neal cared about him, about what _he_ thought. It seemed to Peter that Neal’s self-disgust wasn’t rooted as much in hating that relationship, but in his own reaction to it.

“It’s my job, but it’s more than that and you know it.” He tugged a little harder and Neal stumbled against him. Suddenly, Neal was in his arms and even though Peter knew that touching Neal, holding him, making love to him, was wrong, there was nothing he would do – short of Neal saying ‘no’ – to stop it.

“Peter.” Neal said his name and it sounded like a prayer.

He cupped his hand around Neal’s face, enjoying the roughness of his late-day beard and how it reminded him that Neal was – before anything else – a man. “I shouldn’t do this, I should let you go and we can deal with what you told me tomorrow.” Peter swallowed. “But unless you tell me to stop, I don’t think I can.” 

“Why? Why do you want me? Why _would_ you want me?” 

Peter couldn’t believe how Neal could doubt his self-worth that much, but he could believe the pain he heard. “Because you’re smart and you’re beautiful and you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. And I know I’m doing everything wrong and that this could end up being the worst thing in my career, but – ” Peter stopped and thought about the words he was about to say, what they’d mean in the morning, “You’re worth it.”

Neal looked at him, his eyes huge, full of wonder. “I – I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me to stop if this isn’t what you want, if you have any doubts about this.” Peter brushed his thumb across Neal’s lips, intending nothing more than a gentle demonstration of desire, but Neal chose that moment to lick his lips. His tongue touched Peter’s thumb and the accidental contact sent a bolt of lust through him. Then that touch became a hell of a lot more accidental when Neal slowly, deliberately licked his thumb.

“I want this, I want you.” Neal punctuated that statement with another lick, before taking his thumb into his mouth and sucking on it.

Peter growled, he wanted Neal’s mouth on his mouth, and pulled his hand free. “Are you sure? Because if we start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

Neal laughed. “I’ve wanted you almost since we met, even when I hated what you were and what you wanted from me. I looked at you and cursed, because I knew that El was right, you were perfect.”

Peter laughed, too. And then he let let lust, desire, days and days of longing rise in him. He put his mouth on Neal’s. He kissed him, trying not to devour him, trying to keep a rein on his self-control. Neal was kissing him back, his hands combing through his hair, his nails against his scalp, burning him, burning through his restraint.

They kissed and the world could have ended, but it wouldn’t have mattered. It was the perfection that Peter had barely let himself dream about every night since he brought Neal here. It was better than he imagined and all he’d hoped for.

Neal might have pulled him or Peter might have managed to steer them in the right direction. It was probably just luck, but they ended up in Peter’s bedroom. He didn’t have the chance to turn on a light when Neal hands found their way under his shirt and pulled it off him, and then his hands were at his pants and on his ass and Peter felt like his was being licked by fire. 

“Slow down, slow down.” He managed to capture Neal’s hands and hold them still. Neal’s whine of frustration was gratifying but Peter wasn’t to give in so easily. “Let me see you.” He let go of Neal and turned on the bedside lamp. Shadows leaped across the walls, but Neal was caught in the light and he stood perfectly still, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

Peter went back to him. He trailed a hand from Neal’s face to his shoulder, then down his arm until their fingers met and wove together. He gave a gentle tug, pulling Neal over to the bed, but waited for him to make the next move. Neal didn’t move, but he smiled – an expression of utter sweetness and joy.

Peter kissed him again, because he thought he might die if he didn’t.

And just as Neal had been, moments before, he was consumed by the need to touch skin, to feel the warmth of Neal’s flesh under his palm. He pulled Neal’s sweater off and was awestruck by the perfection he discovered. He glowed in the lamplight, pale and hard and smooth, nipples dark and peaked with desire. He whispered, “Neal” because he needed to say something and that was the only thing he could think of.

Neal smiled, his eyes like blue flames. “Was that a command?”

Peter understood the humor, but he wasn’t amused by his unintentional pun. Aroused, yes – not amused. “No, never.”

Neal reached out and cupped his groin. “I think you like the idea.”

Peter felt himself trembling at that touch. “I do. Too much.”

“I won’t break, you know.”

 _But I might._ Instead of responding, Peter took Neal in his arms and kissed him again, unleashing all of his passion. He didn’t care about finesse, only pleasure - giving and taking and giving and taking until he felt empty and glutted and barely able to stand. 

Neal’s hands were busy at his fly and he was so impossibly erect that he had to step back and undo his own zipper. It was one of those moments that could be horribly awkward or incredibly magical, and it was both. His pants came off but got tangled in his socks. Neal was fighting with his own socks and when he looked up, their eyes met and they both laughed. 

The laugher stopped and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He’d been an adult, with an adult’s appetite, for over three decades and he’d never experienced a moment of desire as perfect as this.

He spoke again, he said Neal’s name again and Neal came to him, naked and aroused - wanting this as much as he did.

The bed was under them, Neal was under him and there was hot skin, slick and salty and Peter was a creature of need and sensation. He wanted to devour this man and to savor him, to feast and feast and never be sated.

“Condom?” 

It was agony but Peter rolled off Neal and reached for the night table drawer. He found the box and a few packets of lube more by chance than design. Neal took the lube from him and started to prep himself. 

Peter managed to roll the condom on and he felt so huge, so damn aroused that he worried he might burst through the condom when he came. But those worries fled at the sight of Neal stretching himself, the slick on his fingers, on his asshole, glistening in the lamplight. The act was so lewd that Peter almost came from watching.

“You good?” Neal looked up at him and smiled.

“Yeah.” His tongue felt thick, his head stuffed with the sight of Neal lying beneath him. But when Neal started to roll over, Peter found his voice. “No, I want to see your face when we make love - I want to see you come.” 

Neal just moaned and lifted his hips in invitation. “Please.”

Peter tried to go slowly, to ease his way into that hot tightness. It was one of the most beautiful, difficult moments of his life. He held Neal’s hips so hard he was certain there would be bruises there tomorrow. But Neal didn’t seem to mind as he arched his back, seeking deeper penetration. 

He was in as deep as he could go - or as deep as he was willing to go without hurting Neal - and he let go of his hips, letting their bodies rest flush against each other, Neal’s cock a hot bar against his belly. He thrust and Neal thrust back and they found a perfect rhythm. Their hands met, their fingers tangled and they rocked against each other. Peter buried his face in Neal’s shoulder, felt Neal’s breath in his hair and he thrust and Neal pushed back against him and their hands found and gripped each other, holding on against the slick sweat.

He pushed into Neal and Neal’s hips canted up, his legs wrapped around him and he pulled out, a small and painful distance. Neal moaned, a prayer, his name, a curse and Peter kept fucking, kept penetrating, kept making love because that was the total purpose of his existence.

Another thrust and another stroke and Neal screamed his name and came, semen hot and scalding between their bellies. Peter gripped Neal’s hands and thrust one last time, and his universe turned blinding white in that moment of perfection.

Consciousness returned and Peter opened his eyes, only to drown in blueness. 

Neal kissed him and happiness bubbled in his veins, stirring echoes of pleasure. He levered himself up and they both winced as Peter pulled out. He laid on his back, panting. 

Neal stirred and Peter turned his head. “Where are you going?” There was no way he was letting Neal go, not tonight, maybe not ever. 

“Just to clean up.”

“Shh, stay here.” He pushed Neal back onto the mattress. “I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do.” Neal settled back into the sheets, resting on his side and looking like he belonged no place else.

Peter managed to hurry to the bathroom, despite his lassitude. He disposed of the condom, washed up and took some fresh towels back to the bedroom. Neal had rolled over, his eyes were closed and his body had taken on the boneless lines of sleep.

He left the towels on the bureau and climbed back into bed. He rested a hand on Neal’s back and watched him sleep. Peter wished that he’d been as brave as Neal had been tonight; brave enough to admit an unpleasant truth. 

He hadn’t lied to Neal when he had told him that he’d once been in love. He’d been careful not to say anything more, letting Neal interpret his silence to mean that the relationship hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. He _hadn’t_ been in love. 

He _was_ in love. He loved Neal Caffrey.

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding the gas leak…** I hate the thought of capitalizing on a tragedy, and the part of the story where Neal’s apartment was destroyed by a natural gas explosion was written a week before the tragedy in Harlem, New York. I had thought about changing the story, but in the end – and upon the advice of my friends in the chat room, I left it as is, but did acknowledge the event.
> 
>  **Regarding the art supplies…** The day after I wrote the scene where Peter goes a little crazy buying art supplies for Neal, this poem, [Art Supplies From Heaven](http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/04/06/art-supplies-from-heaven/?src=xps), appeared in the New York Times. It is the very store I’d just invented – down to the creaking wooden floors! How’s that for serendipity?
> 
>  
> 
>  **Regarding the Bloody Mary recipe …**  
>  • 3 ounces Spicy V8 tomato juice  
> • 1 1/2 ounces vodka (Elizabeth prefer Stoli, but since the taste of the vodka is going to be overwhelmed by the spices, Ketel One is fine). For an extra, extra kick, use a spice-flavored vodka  
> • 1/2 ounce lemon juice  
> • 1 dash of Worcestershire sauce  
> • Celery salt  
> • Ground pepper  
> • Hot pepper sauce to taste  
> • Horseradish to taste (freshly ground is better, but if you are buying bottled, DON’T get the red stuff – it’s sweetened with beet juice)  
> • You can garnish with a stalk of celery, but why?
> 
> **Regarding the German…**
> 
>  _“Dein Arsch ist so wunderbar eng. Absolut makellos . Es fühlt sich an als ob mein Schwanz von heissem Samt umgeben ist. Ich könnte dich ständig ficken”_
> 
> translates to 
> 
> “Your ass is tight and perfect, it feels like hot velvet on my cock. I could fuck you forever.”
> 
> Thank you again, [Sinfulslasher](http://sinfulslasher.livejournal.com/), and I don’t believe that German smexitalk sounds ridiculous. 
> 
> **Finally, regarding the watch…**  
>  The watch is based on a real timepiece made by Patek-Philippe – the _Sky-Moon Tourbillon_. A “fancy” new version was introduced in 2013 with a list price of $1.2 million US.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> The older model currently sells for between $1.5 and $2 million US. 
> 
>  
> 
> The real Sky-Moon shows the meridian passage of Sirius, not Vega, but I needed to get to “Ancient Lyre” and that seemed the easiest way to do it.


End file.
